


Our Sublime Refrain

by destielpasta, mtothedestiel



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Austria-Hungary, Bohemian lifestyle, Childbirth, Clandestine Affairs, Consensual Infidelity, Controlling father, Cunnilingus, Domestic, Drama & Romance, Eventual Happy Ending, Everybody Lives, F/M, Fame, Found Family, Friendship, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Infertility, Intercrural Sex, Intimacy, Kissing, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Marking, Mention of past Alice/Quentin, Multi, Musician Eliot, Musician Quentin, Neck Kissing, Non-Monogamy, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Oral Sex, Past Abuse, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Piano, Pining, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Relationships, Polyamory, Romance, Romantic Era, Romanticism, Secret Relationship, Time Period: late 1830s, eventual polyamory, if ye want blatant and decadent romanticism enter here, non-conventional relationships, past emotional abuse, pianist Julia Wicker, platonically married Eliot and Margo, queer platonic, the baring of souls and telling of the most abhorrent secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2020-05-28 15:26:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 233,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19396963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destielpasta/pseuds/destielpasta, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mtothedestiel/pseuds/mtothedestiel
Summary: In the Year of Our Lord 1836, Eliot Waugh is the most celebrated virtuoso pianist on the European continent. His concerts draw swooning fans, his compositions draw the acclaim of the aristocracy and the jealousy of his rivals, and his well-known adoration for his wife draws the sighs of ladies all over Europe. His life with Lady Margo is decadent, cosmopolitan, secretly unconventional, and above all Romantic.In the midst of all his good fortunes, an undiscovered talent catches Eliot's eye, ear, and heart. His smile haunts Eliot's dreams, and his music draws him to the very height of the sublime. Who is this Quentin Coldwater?Risking all, Eliot, Quentin, and Margo embark on a journey that will challenge their fears, ignite their deepest longings, and dare them to hope for the forbidden.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! This project is the result of many months of hard work from the two of us, and we couldn't be prouder of what we're about to unveil for your reading pleasure. Romanticism, the romantic era, and historical queerness are all topics that interest us both very deeply, making this truly a labor of love. 
> 
> Speaking for myself, it has been an amazing experience to collaborate again (if you were/are in the destiel fandom you might recognize "Plain and Tall" and "The Talk to Me Project" as our other collaborations) with my best friend and create something so completely and totally us. As a musician, to write about the thing I am most passionate about is an amazing and rewarding challenge. 
> 
> While Quentin, Eliot, and Julia's characterizations have elements of real historical figures and events, this is still their story and they will not follow anything but their own path. For consistency's sake, we have kept the titles of musical works used in this fic the same as their real life counterparts.
> 
> Please be sure to read the tags, and keep in mind that this story will have a lot of twists and turns. As always though, we will make sure these characters get the happy ending that we all wish for them. Enjoy!

_“I was completely inside you while composing each song, inside your heart, your mind. You, romantic girl, follow me everywhere with your eyes, and I often think that without such a bride one cannot make such music."  
\- _From composer Robert Schumann in a letter to his wife Clara, virtuoso pianist, 1840

_Leipzig, Germany, May 1st, 1836_

“—Eliot Waugh. A pleasure, I’m sure, Herr Richter.”

“Herr Waugh, of course! You hardly need introduction here, sir. Such an honor to have you in Leipzig.”

Eliot offered the local politician his best court smile, despite the man’s apparent determination to shake his hand clear off his elbow. He had been eager to get away from the needless etiquette of Vienna, but there was something to be said for a good formal bow. Beside him, Margo’s smile was portrait perfect, but Eliot knew they would share a less than Christian laugh over Herr Richter’s overfamiliarity in private later. 

“And this must be your lovely wife.”

Herr Richter turned his attention to Margo, as most men tended to do once the novelty of Eliot’s celebrity threatened to give way to actual small talk. 

“Lady Margaret Waugh. It’s a pleasure, sir.” Margo graciously offered her gloved hand, which Herr Richter did not shake, but instead bowed over despite clearly being out of practice with the gesture. 

“The pleasure is mine, my lady. Your husband must consider himself very lucky to have such a beauty on his arm this evening.”

Eliot took Margo’s hand, pressing a quick kiss to the back of it before setting it in its proper place in the crook of his elbow. 

“I am indeed the most fortunate of men, Herr Richter,” he agreed easily, unable to contain his smile as he met Margo’s sparkling gaze, “Now if you would forgive us, we would hate to miss a moment of the performance tonight. Might someone be able to help us to our seats?” 

“But of course.” Herr Richter snapped his fingers, and a waiter soon appeared at his side. 

“Johann, I imagine our hostess has an intended place for her guests of honor.” 

“Yes sir. If you would follow me, please.”

Herr Richter gave Eliot’s hand one more vigorous shake, lest Eliot be left with any motor function at all. 

“I do hope you and your wife enjoy the concert, Herr Waugh.”

“I promise you, sir, this has already been a terribly memorable evening.” 

Eliot followed the waiter through the densely packed room, keeping an eye that no one stepped on the generous swathe of Margo’s plum colored skirts. It was unnecessary, as the crowd parted readily when they saw Eliot’s towering six-foot frame followed by the jewel-like beauty of his wife on his arm. They were a striking pair, Eliot’s aubergine jacquard waistcoat a perfect match to Margo’s gown, and the evergreen cravat at his throat complementing the spray of baby’s breath tucked into her elegant dark hair. Eliot and his wife were bold, lush, and cosmopolitan, exactly as they intended. 

Eliot held his chin a little higher. He was a vain thing, which he felt was more than well earned. How could anyone not notice them among the humble browns of the citizenry and rows of trestle benches intended to seat the crowd?

Leipzig boasted culture without a court, which Eliot had found charming upon his arrival earlier in the week, but taxing now that he saw the reality of it. Shopkeepers and textile millers banding together to create music was all well and good, but without a Saxony Princess or Prussian Countess to provide a fashionable sitting room, the citizens of Leipzig had to get creative when trying to impress a visiting virtuoso. 

They all wished to set their gaze upon _the_ Eliot Waugh, whether he was at the keyboard or sitting still and silent. His solo recital had been a rousing success the evening before, and in their gratitude the local non-aristocracy were gifting him with an evening of fine entertainment before his return to Vienna. 

He adjusted his grip on his wife’s arm, clearing his throat. 

“My darling bride, remind me again why we accepted this invitation?”

Margo squeezed his arm in return, steering him to the empty set of blessedly straight-backed chairs the waiter lead them towards. Eliot spent enough time holding his posture on a bench thanks to his trade. Call him a hedonist, but he rather preferred to have his lower back supported in his spare time.

“Don’t be a snob. You were just telling me earlier how tired you were of the stuffiness of the Vienna court, and how you wanted to be seen among the humble Leipzig society,” she said, spreading her skirts artfully around her as they took their seats. “And I needed a reason to be out of those dreadful apartments. Your agent truly scraped the bottom of the barrel, dear husband.”

“Come now Bambi, don’t be a _snob_. Pickwick does his best.” Eliot took hold of Margo’s hand, holding it between two of his own. “At least it’s almost time for the music. The first violinist of the Gewandhaus Orchestra has been eyeing me since we set foot in this room and I am most fatigued by the thought of further conversation.”

Margo rolled her eyes. “Goodness knows, we wouldn’t want you to become fatigued.”

He ignored the jab, peering around the room as the brown-suited masses took their seats. Eliot had been mildly looking forward to the performance by a young up and coming pianist, Joshua Hoberman. He loved the unknown quantity that came with a new set of hands hovering above the keys. The drama, the _possibility_. Sometimes he missed it. 

The waiter who had escorted them returned, bowing slightly to speak to Eliot. “Anything I can get you, sir? Or for your lady wife?”

Eliot smiled, turning his attention towards him. They were alike in age, but he was rustic to Eliot’s refined, holding a wooden tray against his side. A messy mop of blond hair curled behind his ears. He had a strong set of shoulders, offset by a full mouth. 

Tempting. 

Eliot wet his lips, smiling. “I would delight in some wine, thank you.”

The waiter nodded. Eliot didn’t miss the way his eyes roamed over his form before leaving to fetch the drink. 

“Suddenly you don’t look so bored,” Margo murmured, nudging him with a very unladylike elbow. “Don’t go scandalizing the local workforce, now. Unless they wish to be scandalized, of course.”

“You insult me, dear wife.” He lifted her hand to his mouth, placing another light kiss to the pearl-soft silk of the glove covering her hand. “I have eyes only for you.”

She shook her head, but her eyes sparkled. They drew the gazes of those seated around them in straight-backed chairs instead of trestle benches: government officials, a few visiting military officers, and local men of means and their well-dressed wives. It did not compare to the stuffy, odorous court of Vienna but Eliot appreciated the effort to create a genuine salon in the middle of humble Leipzig, even if the true purpose was to gawk at he and Margo in all their exotic eccentricities.

The waiter returned, setting Eliot’s wine on the small table beside them and departing with one last glance backward. Eliot took a thoughtful first sip of his drink. Indeed, the night was full of possibilities. 

“Are you sure it was wise to decline the offer to perform tonight?” Margo asked quietly, under her breath. “I’m sure the villagers would have appreciated it.”

“And I would have appreciated giving it to them,” Eliot retorted at a similar volume, returning his attention to his lifetime companion. “I did not care for Frau Schmidt’s tone earlier today, however. As if I owed her a free performance. Left to my own devices I would have performed on my own anyway.”

Margo rolled her eyes. “God forbid you owe anyone anything, dear.”

“Yes,” Eliot said, ignoring her sarcasm. “God forbid.”

He took another sip as a rather short man ascended to the small raised dais that housed a lovely cherry-wood grand piano. The audience applauded its encouragement, and he bowed in thanks. Eliot set his glass down, leaning forward; this must be Hoberman. He was dressed fashionably, but in the sense one who lived far from a true metropolis might consider fashionable, a loud pattern to his waistcoat doing little to hide its imperfect fit. Eliot tried to withhold his snobbery as Hoberban took his seat at the keys, but dandyism was not for those who would scrimp at the tailor’s.

While they had given Hoberman their polite applause and attention, the audience immediately returned to their prior activities once Hoberman plunked out the first melody. Their restlessness at least was familiar; Eliot had never performed a single concert in Vienna for a completely silent audience. The clinking of glasses and loud conversation might as well have been from aristocrats as it was from the shopkeepers and laborers around him. Luckily, his seat was good, and he was able to hear quite well despite the noise.

Not that there was much to hear. Hoberman was a hack. 

Eliot might have been a bit more discerning than most, but who could watch Hoberman paw at the keys in his efforts to crudely interpret a Mozart sonata, and think _quality_? The audience clapped and cheered as he labored through another section of passagework– Eliot only frowned. Where was the clarity? The nuance? Mozart sonatas were like little operas, filled to the brim with characters and stories and intrigue. This was…fast. 

Fast and little else. 

This was a story told by a man in a great hurry, uninterested in developing the suspense of the audience. Eliot could accept it if this were some shopkeeper’s son showing off his humble talents, but Hoberman had been lauded by critics. “The next Waugh” they had called him, as if the bright star of Eliot’s talent were already fading.

He sat up a little straighter. Fading, _his ass._ Tonight was proof enough that Eliot still stood head and shoulders above his peers. Literally and figuratively.

Hoberman finished the abused movement with a flourish and stood to receive the thunderous applause of the crowd. Eliot and Margo clapped politely. 

She leaned over to speak in his ear. “Hoberman plays like a child prodigy in a man’s body.”

Propriety did not allow Eliot the room to scowl _or_ laugh his agreement, but either would have been the appropriate sentiment. “Don’t insult our good child prodigies in such a way. Julia Wicker could outplay him with one hand held behind her back. ”

“Julia Wicker is not a child anymore. No matter what her father would have you think.”

Eliot nodded, ceding the point. “Either way, even _I_ wish it were her we were watching tonight.”

Hoberman was the headlining performer, but even he wouldn't be expected to keep the total attention of such a restless crowd. He left the stage, and was replaced by a violinist accompanied by a new pianist. Though less polished, Eliot still found the young woman’s performance more pleasant to his ear. He tapped his foot along with the familiar German folk tune. 

“Now this I like,” Eliot said. “Something honest that I would not be treated to in Vienna.”

“She does have a lovely tone quality,” Margo agreed. “Perhaps one of the local’s daughters?”

“Perhaps…” 

Soon, the lovely young violinist was taking her bow, and Hoberman plopped down on the bench once more. This time he attacked a Chopin Nocturne with the same gusto and irreverence as the Mozart. The melody was lost to the speed of the arpeggios of the left hand, a crude showing of virtuosity. Eliot should have been able to sink into the melody as one does into a hot bath, but instead he felt cold and bored. 

He sipped artfully at his wine, nodding and smiling at the correct moments. He copied Margo’s aristocratic applause once it was over. 

“How tacky, he added the melody in _octaves_ at the end. Our dear Freddy would quake in his shoes if he knew–”

Margo raised her eyebrows. “Am I in error in thinking that a certain Herr Waugh added not one but _two_ octave passages to dear Freddy’s Waltz last week?”

Eliot pursed his lips. “When I do it, it’s for the _catharsis_ , the pure spontaneity, not hollow applause.”

The show went on, Hoberman abandoning any quality repertoire after the conclusion of the Nocturne. After a brief interlude with a singer, he started hammering away at the soulless show pieces so popular in salons these days. Eliot scowled at the abuse of the upper register of the poor piano. Brilliant, fast passagework that sparkled like crystal china. Beautiful to look at, but cold and lifeless once you touched it. 

Finally, it seemed to be over. To Eliot’s dismay, they were forced to stand in ovation along with the rest of the crowd as Hoberman took his final bows. And then, the greatest insult of them all, the applause went on long enough to elicit an encore performance. Now in a dismal mood, Eliot retook his seat to listen to whatever drivel this brute would pass off as an encore. 

Margo took out a small fan, the air having become quite close.

“Your scowl is most unfashionable, Herr Waugh.” 

He merely deepened his frown in response, waiting for whatever nonsense Hoberman would choose. The man seemed to be hesitating, his hands roaming over the keyboard as if he had to search for the correct starting position. The crowd was finally silent now, looking around awkwardly for him to begin. He glanced to the side, making eye contact with someone Eliot couldn't see, nodding and setting his mouth in a thin line. 

Hoberman found his starting position, and set to work. 

The notes and chords washed over Eliot, but he was only half-listening. He’d heard enough of this pretender, this blasphemer at the altar of music– 

Margo slapped his leg with the back of her hand. 

“This is a good one!” she whispered harshly.

Eliot rolled his neck, half-tuning in for the sake of his wife. He heard the tail-end of the first theme. He was surprised to hear not the abuse of the upper register, but something deeper and richer than what they had been shown all night. Something booming, raucous, almost arrogant– but with a touch of [ freedom ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qjRio8h7aFE). 

Eliot straightened in his chair.

The minor theme gave way to a lilting section of gently pattering notes in the major mode, meandering and winding like a doe through a forest before the return of the inspiring theme. Then the diminutions slowed and the dynamics lowered until Eliot felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand in anticipation. The harmonies were intriguing, supporting the melody by almost keeping it aloft, allowing it to soar. 

Eliot bit his lip. But– 

“Hoberman is butchering this,” he whispered to Margo, leaning over to speak directly into her ear. “Do you hear the harmonies? The way each melody intertwines with the bass? He is making a mess out of something wonderful–”

“Yes yes, he’s terrible,” Margo allowed, waving him away, “but the work itself is rapturous. Do you know it?”

Eliot shook his head, listening intently to every note, trying to commit it to memory. Perhaps he could try it on his own instrument tomorrow, truly feel the melody in all its glory. A beautiful mess. A masterpiece. The piece ended as swiftly as it began, with a restating of the main theme after more exploration.

Eliot was the first to jump to his feet. 

Hoberman accepted the rush of applause with gusto, smiling like a buffoon from ear to ear. 

“My dear friends,” he shouted above the roar of the crowd. “It is my pleasure to introduce you to the composer of this magnificent work, Herr Quentin Coldwater.”

The crowd applauded enthusiastically as a man in a plain evening suit stood, turning to face the crowd and offer a small bow. He had a handsome face, made even more so by his gracious smile. However, his arms were rigid by sides, his hands clenched in loose fists. When he rose back to his full height, he nervously swiped a tendril of hair away from his face where it had fallen away from the knot at the back of his head. 

Coldwater nodded as the applause continued. He scanned the crowd, as if looking for someone in particular. His gaze settled on Eliot, holding it for a moment too long. A red flush rose high on the composer’s neck and he looked away.

Eliot’s hands stilled, and he swallowed a lump that had suddenly formed in his throat.

Quentin Coldwater. How terribly singular. 

“Well that was invigorating,” Margo said, yawning. “Are you going to fuck that waiter? I’ll send the carriage for you in a little while.”

Eliot came back to himself, realizing that the rest of the audience had stood and was gathering their things to leave, chatting excitedly about the evening. When he looked up, Coldwater was gone. 

He plastered the smile back onto his face. 

“I think not, darling.” He offered his hand to help her up. “I am tired, and we have a prior engagement.”

Eliot tried not to scan the crowd for the composer as he and Margo shouldered and nudged their way out of the hall, using every “excuse me” and “by your leave” they were allotted. They stopped to chat with a few officials, Margo taking charge in Eliot’s distracted state. He peered around every plain-suit to see if it was Coldwater, to offer a hand to shake– a congratulations– to look into the eyes of a man who could compose such beautiful music and then let _Joshua Hoberman_ lay it on the butcher block before him– 

A hand touched his arm. He turned, disappointment flooding through him as Frau Schmidt beamed at him, her smile as false as the cheap lace at her throat.

“It was so wonderful of you to attend our humble event, Herr Waugh. And with your lovely wife! Lady Waugh, your grace and beauty elevated such a dull crowd.”

Margo nodded with a smile and a bow of her head. 

“She is the best of me, Frau Schmidt.” Eliot said, already trying to steer Margo away. “If you’ll excuse us–”

The shrill woman held Eliot’s gaze. “Pity you couldn’t honor us with a performance, but I suppose your talents must be saved for the concert hall. Our small salon is nothing compared to Vienna, after all.”

Eliot tilted his head. “I thank you for your compliments, but I had been under the impression that I had been invited here as a guest and not a paid servant.”

Margo laughed loudly, sending him a look of death with her eyes. 

“My husband only means that…”

Eliot had all he could do to nod along with Margo’s excuse for his tactlessness and continue on without pointing out that Frau Schmidt’s dress was woefully out of fashion. Margo steered him away before they could cause a provincial scandal. 

He was used to it, truly, but at the end of the night the attention was more a burden than a joy. It probably would have been modest and quaint of him to do an impromptu performance, but in all honesty he hadn’t even thought of it once he had heard Herr Coldwater’s composition. 

Now, he was sure he would have no way of hearing it again, what with the house almost completely empty and the young composer nowhere to be found. 

Outside, Eliot took his first deep breath of clean air free from the heady smell of too many bodies crowded together. With Coldwater’s music still echoing in his head, he enjoyed the quiet carriage ride and the soft greetings of their loyal servants as they returned to their thankfully temporary apartments. 

Then came his favorite time of night. 

“I beg you to hurry, Bambi, the water will get cold.”

Eliot sipped claret, up to his neck with fragrant, steaming water in the bath as Margo undressed in front of the long mirror. He lounged as best he could in the small tub their townhouse provided, musing longingly on the copper bath in their Vienna apartments which had proved so essential to their happiness. He and Margo could make do in more cramped quarters, of course. It was not as if intimacy between them was an obstacle.

Margo’s lady’s maid, Fen, unlaced her thickly embroidered corset with patient hands. Margo’s fine evening frock was already draped over a chair to be carefully stored. Eliot loved to watch her get dressed and undressed, going from decadent and adorned to the loose and soft woman he married. 

Not that anyone but him would dare call Margo soft. 

Fen removed the last of the pins from Margo’s hair, letting it fall in curls around her shoulders. 

“You outdid yourself tonight, Fen,” Eliot said, leaning against the side of the tub. “My lady was the talk of the soirée. The common folk of Leipzig gazed upon her as if she were a queen, bringing an air of aristocracy to their otherwise humble event.”

Margo rolled her eyes. “Never mind him, Fen. You know how he gets on the third glass of wine. And he’s had more than that tonight.”

“I know a great deal about it, madam,” Fen said cheekily. “But I dare say Herr Waugh speaks the truth in this instance.”

Eliot noted Margo’s pleased smile. Finally, the corset slipped off of Margo’s curves and she was left in her chemise. 

“Leave us, please,” she said. “Get some rest, Fen.”

The lady’s maid took her leave with a quick bow of her head. Margo slipped the wispy gown over her head and let it float to the ground. Gingerly, she stepped into the bath, sinking down into the hot water with a contented sigh. There was a moment of arranging herself amongst Eliot’s long limbs, but they were soon settled comfortably opposite one another in the tub.

“I was going to do this with or without you, you know,” Margo said, reclining her head. “But I'm pleased you’re here.” 

“Noted.” Eliot passed her usual glass of cognac. “I am as well. That waiter looked dreadfully boring, anyway, once I got past his mouth.”

Margo smiled ruefully.

“A shame. But there will be other waiters.”

“There always are.” Eliot took another sip of claret and let his eyes fall shut. The high-flying chords of Herr Coldwater’s music echoed in his ears, bold in intention though weak in their execution. How could mere chords summon such intense feeling, and from the mind of such a timid looking man? Eliot indulged himself in the fantasy of pushing Hoberman off of the bench to show him how a _man_ played good, honest, _German_ music— 

“Something on your mind?” 

Eliot opened his eyes. Margo smiled at him, open mouthed and teasing.

“Clearly you think so,” Eliot said, tickling her thigh with his big toe. “Tell me your theories.”

“I believe,” she started, sinking further into the jasmine-scented water. “That you were not only taken by Herr Coldwater’s composition tonight but by his visage as well.”

Eliot smiled into his wine glass. “I married a highly intelligent woman.”

”I agree. And she saw how your interest in that waiter faded as soon as you heard the first strains of his music, and then completely dissipate once Coldwater stood to receive his applause.”

Eliot pressed a hand to his chest in false outrage. “Can’t I be indignant that a young composer’s excellent work was played so poorly? Did Christ not have righteous anger towards the money changers in the temple of Jerusalem?” 

“Don’t pull that Catholic shit with me, Herr Waugh, he looked alike in age to us both.” She splashed him playfully. “You had more than music on your mind when he took his bow.”

“Hm.” Eliot took one of her feet in his hand, kneading out the tension there absentmindedly. “Perhaps. But righteous anger was at the forefront.”

Margo sighed, her head falling back as she relaxed into Eliot’s ministrations. “I’m sure there’s something you can do. For the advancement of his career. If you were truly affected.”

Eliot stroked her ankle, letting his thoughts wander. Planning. Scheming. 

Quentin Coldwater had been dissatisfied in the way his music had been played this night, that much was apparent in his strained smile and the tension he held in his shoulders. How on earth could Eliot right such a wrong? 

“Perhaps, Bambi. Perhaps.” 

* * *

A cold draft wafted through the sleepy cafe as Quentin Coldwater took another sip of his coffee. Bitter and black, in stung on the way down, clearing the cobwebs from his mind. He pulled his fingers through his long hair, looking up at where his friend Alice surveyed him from across the table. 

“Keep doing that and there will be none left for the evening’s festivities,” she said, eyes bright. 

Quentin dropped his hand from his head, wanting to return her smile. Instead he shook his head. 

“No festivities tonight, so I pull out my hair as I please. The Gewandhaus canceled Hoberman’s concert.”

Alice tilted her head to the side. “I thought it was all set?"

“It seemed so.” Quentin shrugged. “The public liked him at the General’s party on Monday night, but he failed to impress the hall manager. He failed to impress me, if I am being completely honest.”

“I can’t imagine that the Gewandhaus will sit empty on a Saturday evening,” Alice mused. 

Quentin shook his head. “It won’t. Eliot Waugh will be doing his final performance then instead. An encore performance really, after his triumph the other evening.”

“I heard about his residency here, though I didn’t see the recital.” Alice said, pursing her lips. “I can’t imagine why he wanted to take another performance here. It’s not as if he lacks money, or fame. Have you heard him perform?”

Quentin bit the inside of his lip, the pain keeping him upright while his mind wanted to melt into the wood of the chair and never again return to corporeal form. The numb finger of his right hand twitched, a painful reminder of his failings, towards Alice and himself.

“I have not. Nor do I care to. An arrogant showman, in my opinion. He didn’t perform at the Schmidt’s party, even though that would have been the gentlemanly thing to do. It would seem that marrying an aristocrat has done little to improve his character.”

Alice’s face softened. “Quentin, I am sorry. I know this causes you pain.”

“Do you?”

“I do. But it will not be your last opportunity. Only one missed one.”

Quentin sighed, digging through his pockets for a cigarette.

Alice wrinkled her nose when his hand emerged with a well-worn pouch for his tobacco. “I’m disgusted you have taken up such a common habit.”

Quentin held her gaze stubbornly as he stuck the cigarette in his mouth and struck a match, lighting it and inhaling. 

“I _am_ a commoner, my dear friend.”

It was her turn to roll her eyes. “And a martyr, on top of that. How’s the symphony coming along?”

Quentin exhaled, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air above them. 

“It’s a piano sonata now. And it’s going terribly. I have upwards of three pages but I can’t find my way out of the exposition.” 

“I’m sure it’s only a minor snag–”

“I haven’t composed in weeks.”

Alice took a sip of tea. “Perhaps a fresh pair of eyes? I know Julia would—“

“Julia is on tour.” His voice became increasingly bitter. “I haven’t a letter or message from her in months. She has forsaken us for fame.”

Alice shook her head. “I say it again, martyr. Dear Julia finds success and you sit in coffee shops besmirching her good character.” 

Quentin blew more smoke into her face, enjoying the way she turned her nose up in distaste. He eyed the fashionable twist of her hairstyle, the silk of her gown. She wore a new broach at her throat. All things she wouldn’t have if she had married him those three years ago. Their love had burned brightly, but like many beautiful things, it burned out quickly. They were left with a canceled engagement and disappointed parents, but somehow God had smiled upon him, granting him Alice’s devoted friendship. 

A carriage pulled up to the coffeehouse. Alice gathered her things, palming her small handbag. 

“I’m afraid I must away,” she started. Quentin stood, offering a hand to help her to her feet. “But you know I only live a few blocks from you, correct? If you are ever in need of help– or perhaps a _loan_ –”

“Alice,” he interrupted, smiling. “I’m fine. You needn’t worry about your old friend.”

Alice did not look convinced. He wasn’t surprised; he hadn’t convinced himself, truth be told. 

Once Alice was gone, Quentin returned to his seat. He tried to finish his coffee, but it had long gone cold, the milk separating in grainy clouds across its surface, revealing the black dregs beneath. The door to the coffeehouse opened, bringing in a gust of cold air, but he didn’t look up. 

With a scrape of the chair across from him, there was suddenly someone in Alice’s abandoned seat. Quentin looked up, scowling and ready to dismiss whoever had been so bold—

Across from him sat Eliot Waugh, renowned virtuoso pianist and the famous court composer of Vienna. 

“Good afternoon, Herr Coldwater,” he said. An aristocratic smile graced his lips. “I was told you frequented this establishment.”

“Uhh,” Quentin managed. “May I be of service to you, Herr Waugh?”

Waugh crossed his legs elegantly. It showed off the perfect cut of his charcoal suit, as his sienna waistcoat brought warmth to his porcelain complexion. “I apologize, I realize we haven’t been introduced. Sometimes in my enthusiasm I get ahead of myself, and I was just so excited to meet you.”

Quentin’s shoulders dropped. “You were?”

“Indeed.”

It was true, Waugh couldn’t seem to contain himself, crossing and uncrossing his arms, placing them on the table and then in his lap, as if he couldn’t quite decide which silhouette he wanted to present. 

Quentin adjusted himself in his seat. “How is it you know who I am? And… what can I do for you? I heard of your final performance tonight, I wish you luck in it.”

Waugh waved away Quentin’s weak compliment like a wasp. “Yes, and firstly I must offer my apologies. I know your composition was to be officially premiered at Hoberman’s concert, before its cancellation. I assure you, I had no intention of setting you back in this way.”

“It is of no importance.”

Waugh’s eyes widened. “No importance? I believe It is of _dire_ importance, good sir.”

Quentin furrowed his brow. This encounter was growing more befuddling by the moment. 

“Let me be frank.” Waugh uncrossed his legs one final time and leaned forward. “I was rather taken by your composition the other night, however crudely it was performed by Hoberman. Such a sublime work should be interpreted artfully, with the utmost care.”

Quentin tilted his chin. “I hope it doesn’t sound arrogant to say I agree.” 

Waugh smiled, showing a row of straight white teeth. 

“Not at all. I should expect nothing less from a young man of promise.”

Quentin laughed softly, tucking his hair behind his ears. 

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Herr Waugh,” he started. “But I am not promised anything. My opportunity for exposure expired with Hoberman’s disappointing concert.”

Waugh smiled wider, drumming his fingers on the table. Quentin felt more stimulation from watching him than from the coffee he had just drank. A waiter came by to take his order, but he waved him off with a swish of his hand. 

“Do you not promote your own compositions? Surely you play?”

Quentin tapped his lame finger against the table. 

“I play. But I will never be able to fill a hall with sound.” He held up his right hand. “A light paralysis, the doctor called it.”

Waugh frowned for the first time.

“I’m… I apologize. I hadn’t realized. I can see it causes you pain.”

Quentin ponders the words, remembering how Alice had said them just a few minutes ago. 

“Being without music would cause me pain,” Quentin explained. “But I can still compose. I merely lack the facilities for self-promotion. I had hoped Hoberman would fill that role…”

Waugh was not a man who could frown for long, and for some reason Quentin’s last sentence had brightened his face.

“On that note, I have a proposition for you.”

Quentin raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

“Indeed.” Waugh said, reading his expression. “I have gained some measure of fame from my playing and my compositions, and you—“

“Can’t play to save my own life?”

Herr Waugh sat back in his seat, hooking his elbow around the back of the chair and smiling. His eyes shined. 

“I said nothing of the kind and I would like that noted,” Waugh said to the greater population of the cafe. Both ladies in their finery and artists in their rags turned to stare, Waugh’s speaking voice drawing as much attention as his playing. He returned his attention to Quentin, and spoke next in a far more intimate tone. “I merely know that I have influence. I would love to play your compositions. Gift them to a wider audience, if you will.”

Quentin fidgeted, adjusting himself in the hard seat. He bit the inside of his cheek. 

“At what cost?”

Waugh laughed. It was dark, and far back in his throat. Refined and with the rough edges smoothed away to please a large audience. 

“So you are intelligent too, that’s good.” Waugh took Alice’s abandoned teacup in hand, taking a delicate sip. “But there is no cost. I am that enraptured by your music.”

Quentin watched Waugh’s hand, large and spanning, contract to hold the tiny cup. _Enraptured._

He shook his head. 

“Hoberman was unimpressive last night. You couldn’t have been…”

“Enraptured?”

“As you say.”

Waugh set the cup down and reached inside his coat, revealing a shining silver cigarette case. He offered one to Quentin first, who shook his head in refusal, then lit one for himself. Quentin averted his eyes as he wrapped his lips around it. Every move Waugh made was so incredibly sensual, Quentin was certain it must be a deliberate affectation. That wasn’t to say it was any less effective for that knowledge.

“Are you so arrogant to think that you can control an audience’s reaction?” Eliot asked, blowing the smoke out of the corner of his mouth. 

Quentin shrugged, holding his gaze. “If I could, I would.”

Waugh took another drag, sitting forward In his chair. It creaked in the quiet space. 

“I see you are still unconvinced. Come to the concert tonight, as my honored guest, and see for yourself. A discerning composer should never trust just anyone with his works.”

Quentin laughed nervously. “Herr Waugh, I assure you that I know of your talents—“

“But you have never seen me perform.”

Quentin blinked, the laughter dying in his throat. Waugh’s eyes were dark even in the cold winter daylight; they pierced like a dagger to the heart. They were set on Quentin, utterly arresting. 

“No, I have not,” he admitted.

“Then how can you know? The first rule of this game is to be more discerning than you have any right to be. Hoberman was not your first choice, I take it?”

Quentin folded his arms over his chest. “No, he was not.”

“Was he your second? Third? Twenty-eighth?”

Quentin held up a hand, laughing softly. “I understand your meaning. But— surely you have other things you would like to play? The pick of the best?”

Waugh raised his eyebrows. “I have little patience for self-depreciation, Herr Coldwater.”

That sent a pang of nerves down to Quentin’s gut. 

“I have expressed my good opinion towards your composition. The choice is yours.”

Quentin looked away finally, Waugh’s unending gaze still set upon him.

He was still registered as a law student back in Heidelberg. His mother had begged and pleaded in her letters for him to return to his studies, to return to stability and normalcy. _You can always play the piano,_ she had said, _but money will be absolutely indispensable in building a solid future._ And then there was the paralysis, the numbness in his fourth finger that brought his barely-there performance career to a screeching halt because of one foolish decision made in the throes of heartbreak... But dammit, he could still compose. He only needed someone to play for him, to be his unencumbered right hand—

Herr Waugh watched him expectantly.

“I will attend your concert tonight.” Quentin said, You will have my answer then.”

Waugh smiled, flipping open his fine cigarette case again and offering one once more to Quentin. This time he accepted, the wrapper feeling smooth and expensive against his fingertips. Waugh struck a match, and Quentin leaned forward, allowing him to light it. 

“Splendid. You shall not be disappointed.” Waugh smiled like the cat who had gotten the canary. “Tell the attendant at the door that you are my guest, and meet me backstage after the encore. I’ll make certain they are expecting you.” 

“Thank you,” Quentin stuttered. 

Waugh gave a firm nod, stowing the cigarette case without indulging in one himself. He stood, his full height towering over Quentin. 

“Until tonight then?”

Quentin returned the nod. “I look forward to it.”

Waugh stopped mid-stride, turning back. “Also, what was the name of the composition? That Hoberman used as his encore?”

Quentin wet his lips, pausing. 

“ _Aufschwung._ It is to be part of a set. Someday.”

“ _Aufschwung,_ ” Waugh repeated, as if rolling the word around in his mouth. He smiled. “Uplift. How extraordinary.”

Quentin smiled, nodding his head in thanks. 

“Until we meet again, Herr Coldwater.”

With a swish of his overcoat, he was gone, a brightly colored figure in the dreary and grey landscape. Quentin watched him through the window until he disappeared into a carriage. 

He inhaled deeply from the cigarette, the smoke smooth and refined, just like Eliot Waugh’s laughter. He exhaled shakily, trying to calm the nerves that had risen so violently to the surface. He could still feel Waugh’s eyes on him, heavy and pressing, like a physical touch. He tapped away the ash into his saucer. A waiter came by to see if he needed anything else. Quentin’s voice caught when he declined, stumbling over a simple _No, thank you._

A _proposition_ , indeed. 

The rest of the afternoon passed maddeningly slowly. He ordered a simple meal at the tavern down the road and returned to his boarding house to wait out the next few hours before Waugh’s concert. He finished writing a letter to his mother, having neglected his correspondence for some weeks. He straightened his unkempt apartment, fixing the bed linens for the first time in a few days and lining up the abandoned bottles and plates littering his floor next to the door to be washed later. 

Going to meet Alice had been the catalyst to finally disrupt his ennui, he reassured himself, and it had nothing to do with Eliot Waugh’s invitation. Of course not, how could it? When he had scorned his flashy playing and lifestyle just the other night (rather loudly) after taking too much wine at the pub? 

He would not go tonight, he would not. 

One hour later he found himself in front of the Gewandhaus concert hall, dressed in his one good suit, a pit forming in his stomach. 

“Do you have an invitation, sir?” The attendant asked. 

Quentin bit the inside of his cheek. “I’m afraid not.” 

The attendant didn’t look up, scratching a few names off of a long list with a pen. 

“I’m afraid this concert is sold out, sir.”

Quentin clicked his tongue against his teeth, stalling. 

“I was invited by Herr Waugh.”

“Name?”

“Quentin Coldwater.”

The attendant’s eyes flicked up, giving him a once over. 

“Very good, Sir. I will show you to your seat.”

The attendant led Quentin through the rows of seats until they were at the very front, his view of the piano unobstructed. Quentin took his seat as directed, noting that those around him were dressed in the modest finery of the Leipzig bourgeoisie. They eyed him critically over their silk cravats and lace fans. 

Quentin straightened his collar, the edges just slightly too worn against his fingers. His shirt wanted for washing under his coat, and when was the last time he had switched out his cravat?

“Frau Schmidt, it is a _delight_ to see you again.”

Quentin turned, seeking out the familiar voice. Waugh himself stood at the end of his row, greeting a rather old and stuffy looking woman with a deep bow and kiss to the hand. Quentin recognized her as the wife of some important Leipzig official, who sat next to her and eyed Waugh with the similar distaste of a man looking at rotting meat. 

It didn’t seem to matter to Waugh, who conversed easily with her, his voice drenched in honey where it had been frank and discerning this afternoon. He gestured more with his hands, let his head fall back less when he laughed. He was also predictably less windswept, wearing a high collar and waistcoat of deep red under a gleaming black jacket. He soon took his leave of Frau Schmidt, moving on to greet other guests of high-rank, his gaze never once falling on Quentin. 

Dark curls fell elegantly in front of his eyes, bouncing lightly whenever he laughed. 

Quentin sank back in his chair, crossing his legs and endeavoring to look invisible. The last thing he needed was for Waugh to stroll over to him and make a scene, not when his residency in Leipzig had already been made into a laughingstock for people of taste to titter over. 

_Quentin Coldwater, such a good family, pity he will not find success with his– troubles._

_They say the paralysis in his hand is not his only disability–_

He crossed his arms over his chest, eyes searching out Waugh’s tall frame once again. The clock struck eight, signaling that it was time for the concert to begin. Waugh took this comically, making the audience roar with laughter as he jogged down the aisle and took the stairs to the stage two at a time. He strode to the piano and the audience applauded and cheered as he spread his arms wide and took a low bow. 

As he straightened, he looked down, meeting Quentin’s gaze. For a moment, he looked like the man he had met at the cafe–serious and intense. His dark eyes shone almost black in the flickering candlelight illuminating the stage. He winked, offering Quentin a half-smile before sitting down on the bench, flipping the tails of his jacket behind him.

The audience quieted as Waugh lifted his hands to the keys. He gave a starting inhale, and then it began.

Waugh had promised that he would be premiering a [ new work ](https://youtu.be/LDALaf-_65k?t=18) at this concert series, and the audience waited with bated breath as it was unveiled. A rolling arpeggio painted a calm picture– this was no typical Waugh rhapsody. Waugh’s hands crossed as he began to pluck out the melody in the soprano. It was a faint, as if coming from miles away through thick morning dew. It ascended, lilting, until it resolved simply. 

Waugh wet his lips, leaning his entire body into each phrase. The melody repeated, this time in broken octaves, the inner voices intensifying as the theme developed and quickened. The tenor voice entered, a fleeting plea that gave way to octaves in the soprano. And then with a pause as quick as a gasp, the full picture became clear. 

The bass line boomed, the arpeggios sparkled like stars, and Eliot’s Waugh’s hands continued to fly, taking them on a journey through the ether in the very feeling of– 

Quentin breathed, air filling his lungs and pulling at his chest. He was conscious of the hard seat beneath him, of the stuffy air around them and the low chatter of concert-goers as they marveled at the spectacle laid before them. The room _buzzed_ with something that simply hadn’t been present before. He had heard music that could make him forget, lead him to worlds of fantasy, but not music that made him feel more _alive._

Quentin tore his gaze from Waugh’s hands. A small smile graced lips that moved as if singing the melody to himself, inaudible to all except for him. The climax faded into a coda, and the piece ended with Waugh’s hands almost still against the keys, the melody laid bare before them with naught but hymn-like chords to support it. 

The piece ended with a whisper. 

The crowd leapt to their feet, cheering and applauding and shouting _bravo!_ as Eliot stood, grasping onto the fallboard and bowing again to his audience. His face split into a wide smile and he flung one arm out to receive the praise– as if to say _What? It was really quite simple._

Quentin did not rise. He found himself quite frozen. 

Waugh remained standing until the cheering subsided, pressing a hand to his chest. 

“My friends, I am moved by your support of my new piece– a concert etude in the style of the rolling sea. Now, I do hope you will enjoy…”

Quentin ceased to listen, instead intent on the timbre of Waugh’s voice, the way he held himself unapologetically to his full height upon the stage, speaking to the Leipzig public as if it were the finest concert hall of Vienna. For the first time, Quentin wondered: What kind of man could he be? 

_The kind of man who offered to make you famous, for nothing in return,_ his thoughts supplied for him. 

His mind caught up with the present as Waugh once again took his seat, this time launching into one of his Hungarian Rhapsodies, one that Quentin recognized. He had tried it himself a few months ago when he had gotten a hold of the sheet music, finding it as dizzying to play as it was to listen to, but as with the last piece he found that Waugh struck the balance perfectly. 

His technical prowess was unmatched, certainly, but Quentin had never know just how much _music_ this man could make with that prowess. 

He played for nearly an entire hour, almost bringing the ladies of the audience to hysterics when he tossed his violet colored gloves into the crowd. Several seats were upended as they tore at them, happy to get even a piece of Eliot Waugh for themselves. Quentin watched the madness unfold from his seat, feeling a strange twinge in his gut. 

Waugh took his final bow at half-past nine after two encores, disappearing into a private space behind the stage.

Quentin’s eyes darted around the room. He needed to see him, to tell him– what exactly? He was sure he would figure it out when he got there, as soon as he got the ringing out of his ears and had Waugh in front of him– 

“Excuse me,” he asked an attendant. “I was hoping to speak with Herr Waugh– I know it is not usual–”

The attendant, a different man than before, nodded. “Yes, Herr Coldwater. You are expected.”

Quentin followed him through the throngs of excited concert-goers, hearing their feedback of the evening as he passed. 

“-- Unmatched by no other pianist, I would stake my life on it–”

“I must say, he plays well but his entire demeanor is shrouded in arrogance. Julia Wicker would never–”

“Astounding that he is here in Leipzig at all–”

Suddenly he was in front of plain wooden door, the attendant gone with one of Quentin’s few coins in his white-gloved hand. 

Quentin inhaled deeply, raising his hand to knock softly on the door. 

“Come in!"

Quentin turned the handle, pushing through. Waugh sat at a cluttered dressing table, stripped down to his waistcoat and shirtsleeves. He had forgone his cravat, showing off the smooth column of his throat. 

“Herr Coldwater, what a delight to see you again,” Waugh said, rising immediately. “I apologize for my state of undress, the air can become so close on stage.”

Quentin swallowed. What did one say to _that_?

He cleared his throat. “That was an inspiring performance, sir. I was particularly impressed by your _Un Sospiro_. The virtuosity of it was tempered by your control of the instrument.” 

Waugh inclined his head modestly. “I thank you, sir. Do you know what _Un Sospiro_ means?”

“A sigh,” Quentin said quickly, his heart jumping over itself to beat harder in his chest. “Which you invoked masterfully, in my opinion.”

Waugh paused, and for a moment Quentin recognized the expression on his face. The disbelief, the insecurity. It was gone in a flash, and Waugh smiled cordially, rising to take a new seat on the sofa and gesturing for Quentin to join him. 

“Well?” Waugh said, laying his arm informally along the back of the sofa. “I would love nothing more than to speak about the subtleties of my compositions with you, but I’m afraid curiosity is my strongest sense. Would it be too bold to demand your answer?”

Quentin laughed, an exhale more than anything. He had seated himself at a modest distance on the sofa, but Eliot Waugh simply took up so much _space,_ it was as if they were knee to knee.

“It would be, but I appreciate boldness.” He tucked his hair behind his ears. “My answer is easy.”

Waugh raised his eyebrows. “Oh? How so?”

“Because it is yes.”

Waugh inhaled deeply, smiling through a closed mouth. He held out a hand.

“Then Herr Coldwater, I look forward to our partnership.”

Quentin took the outstretched hand with his own, shaking it firmly. It was warm, and softer than the ivory of piano keys. 

“If we are to be partners,” Quentin started, wetting his lips and fighting to keep his voice steady. “You should call me Quentin.” 

Waugh’s gaze was heavy, like the warmth of sunlight on a late August afternoon. He still held on to Quentin’s hand, his long elegant fingers enveloping Quentin’s own.

“Of course,” he said softly. “Then you should also call me by my Christian name.”

Quentin breath caught when he tried to speak. 

“So it is Eliot, then?”

Eliot smiled, letting his hand slowly fall away from Quentin’s, their fingers brushing before completely parting. 

“It is,” he said. “Meet me at my apartments tomorrow, mid-day, to show me more of your works. See Todd by my carriage on the way out and he will give you directions.”

Quentin nodded, hoping to God that the heat rising in his chest didn’t show on his face. 

“I will wish you good evening then, Eliot.”

He nodded. “To you as well, Quentin.”

Quentin rose to his feet, but paused. Eliot’s expression wasn’t one of goodbye, or dismissal. It was one of intense analysis– curiosity. His mother looked at him with exasperation and despite Alice’s best efforts her gaze often held pity. Quentin met Eliot’s gaze, made warm and golden in the low lamplight of the dressing room, and knew he wished to know more, not less.

Quentin searched his mind for something, anything else to say— something witty that would satisfy Eliot Waugh’s curiosity. Or make him laugh and throw his head back again. Anything to prolong their conversation, and perhaps see how far Eliot’s long limbs might progress across the sofa, given the opportunity. 

He swallowed. Nothing came to him. Instead Quentin nodded, showing himself out of the dressing room and into the crowded halls. Despite the warmth he encountered as he wove his way through the densely packed bodies, Quentin had found the atmosphere of Eliot’s dressing room to be much closer. He breathed the cool evening air with relief as he left the concert hall, heading to the local pub in search of a drink that might let him forget the handsome visage and searching gaze which had promised him the world yet threatened to set him aflame in the same breath.

* * *

Eliot burst through the front door of his apartments, overcoat already hanging from his shoulders and his tie half undone. He tossed his coat at the butler, yelling into the quiet house. 

“Where is my lady, Todd? My beauty? My partner in all things?”

Todd straightened Eliot’s fine coat, smoothing the wrinkles. “Good evening, sir. I trust you had a good performance?”

“Yes, yes— but where is my love? Has sleep claimed her before I could have the honor?”

Eliot’s energy buzzed under his skin like a lightning storm, the thunder of applause in his ears and the clasp of Quentin Coldwater’s hand still fresh in his mind.

Todd held back a smile. “She went up to bed about an hour ago.”

Eliot sighed blissfully. “Excellent.”

Eliot took the stairs at a brisk pace, singing out his favorite melody from the last opera he and Margo had attended in Vienna as his feet thumped against the carpeted stairway. He quieted once inside their master bedroom, treated to the sight of his wife reclined on her usual nest of pillows, her brown curls contrasting with the stark white of the sheets. He tiptoed around their bed, the thrum under his skin threatening to rattle him apart. He shed his waistcoat and trousers until he was down to his shirtsleeves and climbed onto the bed, crawling over his wife with predatory grace. He dipped down to kiss her forehead, pulling away to see her eyes flutter open. 

“Eliot? I thought you would be out all night–”

He placed a finger to her lips.

“My love, I must ravish you,” he whispered dramatically.

“Good show then, I assume?” Margo said, yawning like a cat and running her fingers through his hair. Eliot indulged in her touch, then set himself to nuzzling the smooth column of her throat.

“It was an excellent show,” he agreed between tender kisses. “The crowd, the applause, the visitors to my dressing room…”

Margo was already only half-listening, barely awake as Eliot’s attentions to her neck had already rendered her blissfully incoherent. He bit down, sucking lightly and then laving over the mark with his tongue. He slid down her body, fitting her breasts in each hand and thumbing at the nipples covered by the flimsy material of her nightgown. Margo hissed, wrapping an ankle around his back.

Eliot lowered himself further, sliding along the smooth sheets, departing from her breasts to part her knees. It was a rare delicacy between them, but Eliot was simply so _full_ of verve tonight it was only just that Margo should reap the benefits of his robust mood.

“Would you indulge me?” He asked, mouthing at the skin of her calf. 

Margo lied back, a princess in all but title, stroking his cheek and nodding her head. 

He smiled, mischievous, and ducked underneath her chemise. 

It was so easy between them, her hand in his hair, guiding him, his hands on the soft cushion of her hips while his mouth worked at her sex to bring her swiftly and tidily to orgasm. Margo had known full well of Eliot’s predilections when she married him, welcomed them even. Still, he wasn’t entirely void of curiosity towards the female form and Eliot endeavored to be good at anything he tried, including this. He found it as good an outlet as any performance, to have his dearest friend brought to the peaks of pleasure solely by the work of his mouth. 

Eliot labored as the air crackled around him with possibility. His mind wandered to his new partnership, and the way Coldwater’s— no, _Quentin’s—_ eyes had sparkled in his dingy dressing room at the Gewandhaus. Quentin hadn’t truly met his gaze the entire time they had been at the cafe, but his eyes hadn’t left his tonight when they were alone in the dim candlelight. Eliot thought of him watching the concert, completely taken by the way Eliot played, admiring him from afar, thinking he could never have him. Oh, how Eliot would prove him wrong– Eliot imagined how he would look in ought but his shirtsleeves, panting as Eliot breached him with his fingers, then his mouth, and then— 

Margo’s hand tightened in his hair.

“El— damn—“

Her exhalations turned to whimpers, and he doubled down on his efforts. With the consistent pressure of his tongue he sucked, just so, reaching with a finger to enter her below where his mouth joined with her sex. 

Quentin was fair like ivory, Eliot mused over Margo’s heated exclamations. He would blush beautifully beneath him. Eliot would make sure he was sloppy and open and then he would kiss him on his slack lips, guiding his cock slowly inside of him until his breath hitched against Eliot’s mouth. _Oh_ but he would welcome him in so sweetly—

Margo pulled his hair– he thrust his fingers inside of her in time with his mouth, and she came twitching against his lips. She squeezed her thighs around his head, blocking the sound from his ears as if he were underwater. Eliot was surrounded by her, held close, kept intact. She knew after a concert that he was always just a moment from flying into pieces, tonight most of all— 

A moment later she was grabbing for his shoulder, pulling him up by his shirt collar with greedy hands. 

“Your wife would like a kiss.”

He obliged without hesitation, crawling over her and licking into her open mouth. He knew she wanted the taste, the evidence. She hummed in contentment and Eliot loved her like this, soft and pliant and accepting of his affections. 

Margo pulled away and sighed, smiling in satisfaction as her chest heaved. 

“They all love your playing,” she panted. “But only I know your true talents.”

Eliot brought her hands to his mouth, kissing them one by one. “You and all the young dandies of Vienna, my love.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” she hummed. He wrapped an arm around her and she settled back into his embrace, the multiple plush pillows supporting them. What a stunning picture they must make, Eliot thought to himself, mussed and flushed in their marriage bed. He closed his eyes, imagining Quentin in a similar state, his hair released from the tie at the back of his neck and loose around his face.

Exquisite.

Margo stroked his arm with her thumb. “Something tells me that your enthusiasm wasn’t just due to a good performance, however.”

“You wound me, I gave _two_ encores tonight.”

Margo clapped mockingly. He nudged her with his hip. 

“All jesting aside, should I have attended?” She asked seriously. “It seemed a bit excessive, but… I admit. I would have liked to have seen whatever has you so keyed up.”

He bowed his head, kissing her temple and whispering in her ear. 

“Quentin said yes.”

She turned, raising her eyebrows. “Oh, so it’s Quentin now?”

“It is Quentin forevermore, my love.” 

Margo chided him half-heartedly, but her smiles for him were genuine. Nevertheless, nerves fluttered in Eliot’s stomach as he contemplated his next meeting with Quentin. Margo drifted quickly into the heavy sleep of one sated by pleasure. Eliot drifted off himself, comforted by the thought of once again seeing the gentle composer soon, _Quentin_. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, mtothedestiel here! On behalf of myself and my collaborator, thank you for joining us on this journey!! This has been a summer passion project for us both, and we're so thrilled with the response so far. Thanks to everyone for your lovely comments. We're posting early, because we can't resist (don't worry, we're well ahead in our writing, nearly 50k already done!) Thanks again, and if you're enjoying this Romantic adventure, we hope you'll subscribe and let us know what you think!
> 
> P.S. For my readers, never fear! Saltwater remains a priority in my heart. I'm writing it as we speak!

The next morning Eliot was inconsolable. Todd broke a sweat laying out five different suit options for Eliot’s consideration, running up and down the stairs to dig through Eliot’s auxiliary trunk he hadn’t bothered to even unpack when he rejected them all. He changed his cravat three times before settling on the dark blue, at Margo’s recommendation. The jacket was the next debacle, and by the end he settled on the black velvet (a little warm for this time of year, but sophisticated and romantic) and Margo excused herself to fix a tonic for her frazzled nerves. 

“Margo– the floral or the dotted waistcoat? The floral matches my eyes but you know what the dotted does for my coloring–”

“ _Really_ Eliot, he wasn’t _that_ handsome,” Margo said, gesturing with her drink, the flush high in her cheeks. “You’d think we had a Russian duke coming to dine with us instead of a nobody composer.”

“He will not be a nobody for long, my queen,” Eliot said, adjusting and re-adjusting the way his curls fell roguishly in front of his face in the reflection of the floor length mirror. “I do wish you would support me, I haven’t been this excited _since_ the Russian duke in Berlin.”

Eliot allowed himself a brief and wistful sigh over the aforementioned duke. Idri had been a bit old for him, but such a dear, not to mention a spectacular lover. Margo rolled her eyes, tipping the rest of her daytime libation into her mouth and standing. She smoothed the silky velvet over his shoulders with a firm hand. 

“I do support you, as you know full well.” 

Eliot smiled at their reflection, taking her hand and lifting it to his lips. He had baited her for her affection and approval, but he was decidedly _not_ sorry. He drew her forward to lean against his shoulder. Their regal visages were reflected back at them through the looking glass, he in his finest trimmings and her in a new lace collar from Brussels. Man and wife, and what a pretty picture they made.

Margo excused herself shortly after to go shopping, and Eliot found himself aghast that he would be required to amuse himself for an undetermined amount of time before Quentin’s visit. He scratched away at an unfinished composition on his music stand, littering the manuscript with fresh ink stains and very little new music. Admitting defeat, he resigned himself to the sofa, holding the latest novel Margo had ordered from England, trying to absorb the story. He was fluent English, French, and German but the words swam in front of his eyes, taking on little meaning. 

He had settled on taking a light doze when he heard the thump of the door knocker, and Todd’s footsteps in the hallway. 

“Good morning, Herr Coldwater,” came Todd’s muffled voice through the wall. “Herr Waugh has been expecting you.”

Eliot’s eyes flew open. 

He couldn’t quite hear Quentin’s reply, cursing the sturdy walls of the Leipzig townhouse. Decorum kept him in his seat and away from running into the entryway to greet Quentin himself. 

_You are the husband of a fine lady, and a renowned performer, you brute_ , he chided himself, _Let the man see your best side._

As footsteps approached the study he scrambled to right the book that laid upside-down in his lap, crossing his legs and attempting to look effortless. 

The door opened and Todd entered, bowing his head properly. 

“Herr Coldwater is here for you, sir.”

“Excellent,” Eliot said, closing the book softly and standing as Quentin shouldered his way into the room.

He was as lovely as Eliot remembered– now flushed and slightly out of breath, as if he had been in a hurry to arrive. He wore his hair loose around his shoulders, smoothed away from his face as if he had just run his fingers through it. At his side was a thin leather folio, embossed with fading gold lettering: _T.C._

Eliot smiled warmly. “Good morning, Quentin. It is so lovely to see you again.” 

“Good morning,” Quentin said. “I trust that this is a good time? I hope I didn’t disturb you.”

Eliot opened his arms to welcome Quentin into the sitting room. “Your timing is impeccable. I had just found myself at ends and wishing for company.” 

“Then I am glad to be of service.” Quentin’s eyes roamed, touching on all manner of small details in the room, from Eliot’s carefully curated waistcoat to the chintz sofa to the art that hung on the walls in their gilt frames. Eliot found his apartments in Leipzig to be tolerable, if more humble than he preferred now that he was the head of a successful household. By the roundness of his gaze and the uneasiness of his step Quentin must have arrived here from a much opposite social circumstance. Eliot dwelled only briefly on the tragic bohemian tenement in which an artist of little means must reside before turning to his butler.

“Thank you, Todd. Some tea would be most welcome. And perhaps a bite of cake, if we have some about. I find myself a bit peckish this afternoon.”

Todd glanced at Quentin’s back before giving Eliot a meaningful nod. “Very good, sir.”

Quentin’s eyes stayed with Eliot as Todd exited. Then they were alone. Eliot wet his lips, gesturing nervously. “Come, do sit here.”

He escorted him to a seat next to the piano, where Eliot had sat just moments ago. He moved the book aside, and Quentin took his seat with a small smile.

“Did you have any trouble finding us?” Eliot asked, settling on the piano bench. “I hope Todd was effective in his directions.”

Quentin nodded. “Indeed, he was. I am familiar with the neighborhood. My friend, Alice Quinn– excuse me, Alice _Weber_. She lives four houses down.” 

_Alice Quinn._ Eliot’s mind was pricked with curiosity. A childhood friend of Quentin’s, or something more? 

“I am so glad.” Eliot braced his arm against the fallboard. “Well, Todd should be back soon with refreshment but I beg you please don’t leave me in suspense. I would very much like to see the music you have brought with you.”

Quentin sat up taller, as if remembering the folio sitting in his lap. 

“Of course, of course, allow me—“ Quentin rifled through the many papers, finding the particular leaf he wanted and standing to place it on the music stand in front of Eliot. 

“It is a sonata, one I hope to orchestrate into a symphony someday, but for now the piano will suffice.”

The page Quentin set before him was perfect, confusingly so. Judging from the loose style of his hair and the wrinkles on his plain white cravat, Eliot has expected Quentin’s manuscripts to be messy, ink-stained and edited into submission. And yet, every note was in its place, every measure line straight as an arrow. 

Nevertheless, Eliot placed his hands on the keys and began to play. 

The first theme of the sonata was sprightly and buoyant, moving into a brilliant passage of fingerwork. But then...Eliot played halfway down the page, and stopped, brow furrowed. 

“Is something wrong?” Quentin asked behind him. 

“No,” Eliot said quickly. “Forgive me.” He pressed on, feeling Quentin’s gaze on the back of his neck. 

It wasn’t… bad. It called to mind every other showpiece Eliot had heard in the salons of Vienna; drabbles played by child prodigies and the occasional flashy virtuoso, albeit with quality writing. The voice leading was smooth, the transitions playful and exciting, but it was mere flash. Entertaining for the moment, perhaps, but not memorable. 

He stopped again, turning. Smiling. 

“Lovely,” he said. “Is there something else? Something contrasting, perhaps?”

Quentin scrambled to open his portfolio. 

“This one had some success, what with nocturnes being so in fashion—“

Eliot nodded as he took the sheet, his stomach sinking before he even set it on the stand. He started playing, finding it very similar to the former piece, if only slower. Another neat row of notes, straightforward arpeggios, a melody that held sweetness but not _intensity—_

Eliot realized he had stopped playing when Quenitn cleared his throat. He was expectant, eyes hoping. And yet… there was something else. Quentin exuded an air of disappointment, as if Eliot had already turned away, as if he turned him before even entering the house.

He scrambled for something to say. 

“Herr Coldwater, I must say–” Eliot’s tongue was lead, and Quentin’s frown deepened by the moment. “You are a far neater manuscript copyist than myself.”

Eliot knew right away that that was not the right response. 

Quentin stood, leaning over Eliot and plucking the sheet from the stand. He slipped it into the folio and stood, limbs tense as a trapped animal. “Let me save us both the trouble, Herr Waugh. Clearly your interest in my work was mistaken, and I have taken too much of your time already, I’m afraid. There is no need to spare my feelings over a simple misunderstanding–”

Eliot’s heart hammered as Quentin made to escape through the door in long strides. What had he done? 

“Quentin—” He rose from his seat, the piano bench making an ugly screech in his haste. “It is not what you think.”

Quentin stopped, holding his music to his chest like a shield. 

“What is it then?” He said, his voice caught in his throat. “Tell me quick, I do not wish to be thought a fool, sir.”

Quentin’s jaw twitched, turned up. Pride. Well, Eliot was no stranger to that. He took a chance, stepping forward and laying a hand on Quentin’s shoulder, brushing his fingers lightly over the rough wool of his coat. 

“I do not think you a fool, Quentin.” 

Quentin met his gaze, unflinching and brave. 

“I think you are a great talent, and a great mind,” Eliot continued. “I wish to hear _that_ music, which stems solely from within you, not the trifles you compose to please an audience that is fickle at best. Any composer in Vienna can concoct a show piece, but your music has more than that.”

Quentin’s jaw tensed.

“With all due respect sir, you may have been too quick to judge. You have only heard my work once, and from a mediocre musician,” he said. “This is what I have.”

Eliot’s hand fell away. He didn’t believe it, not for a second. Quentin’s face was full of secrets and doubt and Eliot _knew_ , he knew there was something more to be heard from him. 

“Then play me something,” Eliot said, stepping back and gesturing to the piano. 

Quentin broke eye contact with him at last, sighing and looking up at the ceiling. 

“I have already confided my disability to you and laid my work at your feet. My career is in shambles and you wish for me to embarrass myself further?”

“I am not asking you to entertain the Sun King in the court of Versailles,” Eliot said. “You are in my office, with no one but me to hear you.”

“I didn’t plan for this— my practice has been sporadic. Unfocused. You will not get an accurate picture. 

Eliot shook his head. “Perfection is irrelevant. I only wish to hear the music as it comes from your mind. If I am to be your hand, I must know your intention.”

“Do you ask other composers for opinions on how to play their works?”

Eliot pursed his lips. “I do not.”

“Then why ask for mine?” 

“You’re different, Quentin,” he said quickly, before fear could take him. “Forgive my boldness, but surely you have sensed that.”

Silence. Footsteps passed the closed door. God only knew how many servants had listened in on their conversation. 

Quentin met his gaze again. Christ on high, but he was lovely. Sad, yes, but lovelier still for his melancholy and frustration. Eliot wanted to see that veil part over his handsome features, to taste a moment of triumph. In short, Eliot wanted to hear Quentin’s _music._

Eliot’s eyes followed the line of Quentin’s throat as he swallowed and clenched his fists at his sides. 

Without another word, Quentin turned and settled at the piano, leaving Eliot standing alone in the middle of the room. He scrambled back, landing on the sofa, waiting for him to begin. 

Quentin set his hands to the keys and breathed, the first notes sounding on his exhale. 

His playing was…soft. Not in dynamic but in texture. Blurred. The tone was strong, with much attention paid to balance. The inner voice murmured like a whisper, a tender touch. The bass was an undercurrent, a river flowing deep under the ground. It was not playing for grand halls and decadent audiences. 

Eliot leaned onto the arm of the sofa, letting his chin rest in his hand. Oh, but he wished he could see Quentin’s face as he played, not just the set of his shoulders. They were tense, as Eliot had seen in pianists who had fallen out of regular practice, but what expression beset his visage? Was it merely focus, a sterile recalling of the notes as he pushed them through his fingers to the keys, or did his face tell the story as well as the lush sound that reached Eliot’s ears? Would Eliot come around the bench to find longing in Quentin’s eyes?

Descend, ascend, hold, and back. Push and pull. The melody was repetitive, but the way Quentin played it made it feel different every time, like a lover pleading with their beloved, using every fiber of their being— 

Without once raising their voice.

When he finished he removed his hands from the keyboard, flexing his fingers as if he could still feel the music in them. Eliot sighed. 

Quentin turned, as if just remembering Eliot’s presence. 

“Well?” He asked. 

Eliot stood, moving slowly to the bench. He sat beside him, heedless of his overfamiliarity, and boldly took both of his shoulders in his hands. 

“Oh Quentin, I’m going to make you a _god._ ”

Quentin blushed. His smile was beaming. He dipped his chin down, and it brought his bare skin dangerously close to Eliot’s hand where it still clasped his shoulder. 

“Did you forget that you would be the one performing, Eliot?” He asked with a hint of a laugh. 

Eliot smiled because the fight was gone from Quentin’s voice, and without it he had said his name again. 

“We will each serve as muses to the other,” Eliot said, lowering his hands and placing them in his lap. “I ask for an equal partnership.” 

“You shall have it,” Quentin said. The smallest smile graced his lips. It was disbelieving. 

Eliot nodded, reluctantly breaking eye contact and swinging his legs under the piano. 

“Alright, now play me that melody again.” 

Quentin did, and then taught him the entire piece almost by rote, outlining each melody with the utmost care before adding the harmonic voices and bass line. At some point Todd returned with their tea, which they took right at the piano, Eliot being too eager for even a moment’s pause. Eliot thought they must look a beautiful picture, side by side at the piano bench. The two of them being grown men, there was hardly an inch of space between them, which Eliot didn’t find objectionable in the slightest. Quite the opposite.

“No, _here_ ,” Quentin said while teaching a new development of the theme, picking up Eliot’s hand and moving it to the correct position. “The modulation begins without prelude.”

“I see,” Eliot breathed, Quentin’s hand still on his own. He looked up, finding Quentin watching it as well. He removed his hand, setting it in his own lap. 

How interesting. 

“Forgive me,” he said. Eliot didn’t miss the way a blush crept up his neck,. “I often forget myself.”

“It is unnecessary,” Eliot returned, waving a hand. “You are a natural teacher. Do you have students?”

He shook his head. “Not in Leipzig. I did in Heidelberg.”

Eliot furrowed his brow. “Correct me if I’m mistaken, but I thought you were from Zwickau.”

“I am indeed.” He shrugged. “I was in school in Heidelberg until four months ago this Wednesday, studying the law.”

Eliot froze mid-reach for his teacup. “The law?”

Quentin nodded, his easy smile and loose shoulders gone. “It was my family’s wish– my mother’s mostly– that I have a stable profession. I have always excelled at academics so it was a natural path for me, at the time.”

“I do not doubt your intellect,” Eliot said, choosing his words. “But I am intrigued. If it was your natural path then why are you not still there?”

Quentin’s gaze fell. “There is… no one reason. The law held my interest for a time, with its rigid code but flexible practice, but I found myself drawn to music. It was my favorite as a boy. I could spend hours at the piano– putting melodies together, it felt like magic. As if I were creating something from nothing.” He smiled, retreating, pulling back into himself. “I must sound rather foolish to you.”

“No,” Eliot said quietly, looking down at where Quentin’s hands rested in his lap. He imagined the music he could create given the chance, given the facilities. “I find that you make perfect sense.”

Quentin laughed. He looked up, and his brown eyes were intense. 

“You are kind to say so. I wish now that I had been more serious– practiced more, or was more disciplined. Things might be so different.”

Eliot held his gaze, his heart quietly beating against his ribs. He realized then just how close they had become, pressed together from thigh to torso on the narrow bench. If he leaned in an inch, he might count each of Quentin’s eyelashes. He took a breath, wetting his lips before speaking again. 

“Whatever your path here, there must be a reason. A plan in store for you.” He leaned fractionally forward, as if about to tell a secret. “I myself… am _most_ happy that we found ourselves in Leipzig at the same time, Quentin.”

Later, Eliot would insist that he had imagined it, but he would swear to all that is holy on Earth and in heaven in that moment that Quentin’s eyes flicked down and rested upon his lips– just a fraction of a second. There, and then gone. 

Quentin cleared his throat, breaking their gaze and gesturing stiffly towards the piano.

“Shall I… make a copy for you?”

Eliot didn’t mention that he already had the piece memorized backwards and forwards. Instead, he treated himself to the vision of Quentin Coldwater at his desk, brow furrowed and tongue poking through his lips as he scratched out his composition using Eliot’s best pen. Eliot watched him with interest, noticing the little things as Todd returned and poured them more tea. Quentin played with his hair as he worked, pulling it strand by strand away from his head, and then impatiently smoothing it away from his face. He squinted, as if he wanted for reading spectacles. 

“I forgot to ask,” Eliot said while he finished, signing the bottom. “What is it called?”

Quentin paused, the pen hovering over the paper. 

“Would you be disappointed if I told you I hadn’t even thought about it yet?”

Eliot laughed. “You can let me know. I’m not entirely sure when my next performance will be and I’ll send a letter if I need the title quickly. For programming.”

Quentin stiffened. “Programming?”

Eliot smiled, shrugging an elegant shoulder. “You didn’t think I’d get you all the way here and then not play your works on my next concert?”

“Uh—“

Eliot stood. 

“You seem to have lost your words. Allow me to provide some. ‘Thank you, Eliot, your talent shall shine through my work like a beacon of artistry.’"

Quentin laughed again, shaking his head. He added another slur line, and then handed Eliot the finished copy with a flourish. 

“Forgive me if I settle with a simple thank you.” He paused, his smiling lessening, and added: “Eliot.” 

Quentin denied Eliot’s offer for more tea, and took his leave shortly after. They shook hands, the intimate touch of friendship, then Eliot escorted him out personally. He watched Quentin from the front window until his head disappeared around a corner, touched by a whisper of melancholia. At that moment, Margo made her entrance through the front door followed by a footman heavily laden with hat boxes. 

“Why are you gawking out the window like a sailor’s wife?” She asked, untying her bonnet and setting it on the table next to the staircase. 

Eliot still held Quentin’s music in his left hand. He pressed it close to his heart, feigning lightheadedness. 

“Only for romance, my dear, the most noble cause of all.”

Margo rolled her eyes, but Eliot didn’t miss her pleased smile. She always had fun during his dalliances. She gestured for the footman to follow her into the parlor. 

“Try to be subtle with this one,” she called. “I wouldn’t want to have to burn Leipzig to the ground before we left.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a few historical notes for those interested from your friendly neighborhood music nerd destielpasta:
> 
> Quentin and Eliot are both modeled after very contrasting but very prominent composers of 19th century western art music (I'll let you figure out who, it's pretty painfully obvious). Quentin's situation as a composer who does not perform would have been a precarious one, since musicians were, at this point in time, expected to perform and promote their own works. Previously, a composer would have been supported by the court system (such as Haydn who lived at the Esterhazy Estate for most of his life). Even though Eliot is the court composer for the Emperor at Vienna in this fic, this system was mostly for ceremonial purposes and Eliot would have made most of his money from concertizing and performing. A composer like Quentin would have had to be very creative with how they promoted their works, hence the idea for this fic was born. 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all the fabulous support for this fic! We're looking forward to where this story is taking us...

“Tell me, Quentin, have you heard from dear Herr Hoberman since his poor showing?”

Quentin nearly spit his coffee all over the table, laughing without any trace of decorum. Eliot sat across from him behind a mostly untouched tea service, looking very pleased with himself. Quentin’s usual cafe was almost empty, making Eliot’s elegant presence in its shabby interior even more outlandish. 

“I’m afraid that he left Leipzig that very night.”

Eliot raised his eyebrows. “Without a trace?”

Quentin shrugged, only slightly guilty at having fun at Hoberman’s expense. “He left a note.” 

“A note! How magnanimous of him.”

Quentin shook his head, taking another sip of coffee and suppressing a very inelegant _giggle_. Eliot Waugh was so funny, so charming, it made him nearly forget himself.

Quentin had been surprised that morning with a letter on his breakfast plate instead of his usual eggs. Written on thick white paper with his name set in looping, elegant script, he knew it could not be from his usual informal correspondence with Alice.

His landlady had spotted him staring down at it. 

“Some finely-dressed young butler brought that by at first light this morning,” she had said, nodding at the letter as she poured tea into his cup. “He wanted to wait for a reply, but I told him you rarely rise before ten o’clock.”

“Tell me you didn’t,” Quentin had groaned, using a butter knife to break the seal. He began to read.

_Quentin,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. I find my thoughts wander to our meeting whenever there is a spare moment, and my excitement to present your music to the world grows with each hour. Luckily, I have been made privy of the details of my concert this weekend. I would love to present something of yours at this affair, if you would allow it, and need your programmatical information as soon as it is humanly possible. Could we meet sometime today? I would love to receive you in my home but I’m afraid that my wife is entertaining several local ladies and I have been banished so that they may indulge in the mysteries of feminine conversation._

_May we meet at the charming cafe where we first conversed?_

_I am your humble and obedient servant,_

_Eliot_

_PS— should your answer be yes, I would be most honored if you were to bring along more music for me to feast my senses upon._

One hastily written reply, a precious coin for the messenger boy, and two hours later Quentin was sitting across from Eliot. He wore a simpler suit of clothes today, his jacket a muted brown and a waistcoat to match with a cream colored cravat. Still, the materials were fine and his hair coiffed to perfection. A jolly checked handkerchief peeked out from his front pocket and a white-stoned ring graced the second finger of his right hand—

“Quentin? Did you hear my question?”

Quentin started, his hand flinging out and nearly coming into contact with the tall glass of water in front of him. 

“Oh— sorry, would you mind repeating that?”

Eliot smiled, eyes sparkling. “I only wondered if you had thought of a title for your charming character work. The pretty one you played me the other day.”

Quentin fidgeted in his seat. “I believe I have settled on _Des Abends_ . Though I’m not certain what kind of set it will make with _Aufschwung_ as the themes are so unrelated–”

“Never mind that,” Eliot interrupted. “Hm… ‘Of the evening’– how ironic. I performed it for my wife just the other evening and she pronounced it the perfect lullaby.”

Quentin smiled, the knot in his stomach tightening. “I am pleased, then.”

The Lady Waugh remained a mystery, having been out of the house during his visit and not willing to receive him today. He wondered what she would think of the proximity he had sat next to her husband at the piano, guiding his hand and being free with his touches. She might think it charming that her husband had a new friend, or perhaps she would be suspicious. Eliot might know to keep them separated. 

Quentin looked up at Eliot’s smiling face. Perhaps Quentin was simply reading too much into the situation— Waugh was known to be charming, known to be philanthropic. His interest might only be based in Christian charity, not any interest or desire Quentin had imagined lied behind his gaze. 

Perhaps Quentin was on the way to making himself look a fool. 

Eliot bowed his head. “Well, the date is set for Saturday for my next concert at the Gewandhaus. I told them I needed a few more weeks in the clean Leipzig air and the manager was more than happy to indulge me.”

“Good news,” Quentin said. “How many more weeks?”

“Three concerts’ worth.” Eliot raised a hand for the waiter, smiling as he brought a fresh pot of tea. “I don’t think I can be away from Vienna any longer than that, what with my duties at court, but it is a charming concert series, is it not?”

“Indeed it is.” 

Quentin thought about the three months he had lived in Leipzig before Eliot Waugh’s arrival, how boring they had been. What would he do once he left?

“The manager was more than accommodating, thankfully.” Eliot continued. “Apparently my concerts have been quite a hit.”

Quentin rolled his eyes good naturedly. “Are you really so surprised?”

Eliot mouth fell open in mock disbelief. “Herr Coldwater, are you questioning my modesty?”

Quentin leaned forward, snagging a biscuit from Eliot’s tray. “Only slightly.”

Eliot shook his head as Quentin bit into the sweet cookie, catching the crumbs that fell onto his lap with his other hand. 

Eliot clucked his tongue against his teeth. “What would your finishing school mistress think of you?”

“She always thought of me as a helpless case,” Quentin joked in return. “Forgive my boldness, but were you planning to play _Aufschwung_ at your next concert?”

“No, I’m afraid not,” Eliot said, pouring himself another cup of tea. 

Quentin tried to hide the sinking of his heart. 

“Ah, well that is understandable—“

“I will be playing _Des Abends_.”

Quentin pursed his lips. “ _Aufschwung_ has so much more flash to it, are you not trying to dazzle the crowd? _Des Abends_ is only barely finished.”

“It is more than finished. It is perfection.” Eliot shook his head. “And my friend, an encore is not for flash, it is for _tenderness._ Besides, they will get enough flash from my new paraphrase.”

Quentin sat back, deflated. “You mean to play it for the encore?”

Eliot beamed, gesturing forward. “Of course! It is the most coveted spot. Everyone will have you in their memory as they travel home. What could be better?”

 _An official and recorded spot on your program_ , Quentin thought to himself. Encores were often lesser known works, played unannounced to better shroud them in mystery, and protect the performer from blame should the work be ill-received. 

When Quentin looked up, Eliot was frowning. 

“You are displeased,” he stated. 

Quentin threw up his hands. “No! Of course I am honored you would think to play my works at any moment of your program.”

Eliot smiled tentatively. “I am glad to hear it. I promised you immortality, Quentin, and I intend to give it.”

Quentin couldn’t think of what to say next, so he took another gulp of coffee, the brew cold and unsatisfying now. 

Eliot looked around awkwardly. “Well, shall we take the air? It is a lovely day for a walk. You could show me around the area?”

Quentin agreed, of course, but he knew his mood had ruined their moment. There wasn’t much to see in Leipzig, at least that he was familiar with, and Quentin found himself desperate to keep Eliot’s attention as he showed him around the downtown. His efforts were feeble at best, and yet Eliot remained with him, apparently just as reluctant to depart from their company as Quentin despite the awkwardness. Quentin longed for the intimacy of the piano before them, their thighs brushing over the pedals and a thousand possibilities hovering beneath their fingers. In that sacred space Quentin might have found the courage to broach the unspoken between them. 

Eliot brushed a hand against Quentin’s back as they skirted a puddle in the street, and he could have sworn the touch lingered. When Quentin looked he found his companion’s gaze already on his face. Eliot flicked his eyes away quickly, hand returning easily to his side, but Quentin saw his own desires mirrored there.

He was _nearly_ certain of it.

Some thirty minutes later, Eliot stood with his hands behind his back, surveying one of the historical buildings. “How lucky you are to have such a lovely library so close—“

“Eliot?” Quentin interrupted in a fit of boldness.

Eliot stopped, turning. His eyes were guarded. 

“Yes?”

“I have other music,” Quentin blurted out, face burning. He was unsure of what to do with his hands. When courting Alice he had always been free to— but such things with a man could never be so simple. Not here on the street. “I know you asked me to bring some but— well. I would like to play for you again, as that seemed to work the best. At my apartments downtown. I would be happy to— to receive you there, where we could enjoy more...privacy.”

Eliot stared, his expression carefully blank. 

“If you were willing,” Quentin added hastily. 

He inclined his head, analyzing Eliot’s expression. They had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, people staring as they sidled by. His heart stuttered– panic, _flee_ – 

Eliot smiled, still guarded, but with something more behind his eyes. Something light and...pleased?

“I am most willing, Quentin, as always, to hear your music,” he said. “Especially from your hand.”

Eliot took a step closer. It was _almost_ too close for propriety, grazing the forbidden. Quentin’s lips parted, uncertain of his response but knowing he needed to say _something_ when– 

“Quentin!"

He turned, seeing Alice approach with a wide smile and her parasol over her head to block out the early spring sun. She trotted over to them, her heels clicking excitedly on the cobblestone. 

“Lovely to see you!” She offered her hand, which Quentin took for propriety’s sake, Eliot’s eyes hot on the back of his head. “I went by the cafe, but they said you had already left for the day.”

“Good to see you as well, Alice.” He released her hand . “Were you looking for me?”

She shouldered her parasol, reaching into her pocket. “I was—“ she caught sight of Eliot behind Quentin. “Oh, forgive me. How rude I have been—“

“Eliot Waugh,” Quentin said, trying to take control of the situation. “May I present Alice Weber?”

Eliot stepped forward, taking Alice’s hand and pressing a quick kiss to her knuckles. “It is a pleasure Frau Weber. I believe we are neighbors?”

Alice blushed. “Indeed, sir. I am pleased to know such an artist, Herr Waugh. Are you enjoying your time in Leipzig?”

“Oh, immensely, especially with such a fine tour guide.” He nodded at Quentin. “How are you two acquainted?”

Quentin’s stomach dropped out from inside of him. “Our families—We are friends—“

“We were formerly betrothed!” Alice declared. “He is my dearest friend now.”

Quentin could have smacked his own forehead. Alice bad bested him in mathematics and foreign languages, but even he had retained more of his knowledge of the social arts than she. 

Eliot took it in stride, his smile never slipping. “How charming.”

Alice was already distracted. “Q, I only wanted to give you—“ She dug in her pocket, pulling out a folded letter. “I have a letter from Julia– she was unsure of your new address and sent it by way of me. And you had me thinking she was ignoring your correspondence–”

“Julia?” Eliot echoed. “A sister, perhaps?”

“A friend,” Quentin said, voice low, taking the offered envelope from Alice’s hand. Julia’s small and scratchy script lined the front, spelling out:

_To Quentin Coldwater_

_Wherever in this world you might be at this good and present time._

_By way of Alice_ ~~_Qui_ ~~ _Weber, ally and friend._

Eliot laughed nervously, drawing Quentin’s eyes away from the letter. “You certainly do not want for friends.”

“She is Quentin’s _oldest_ friend,” Alice pointedly gushed. “And an esteemed pianist. She is on tour in Russia right now.”

Eliot’s brow furrowed. “Julia… Julia Wicker it is then?”

“The very same!” Alice said while Quentin said a simple “Yes.” 

Quentin turned his gaze to look at Eliot, who smiled and nodded while Alice continued making her small talk. There was something off about it, a tentative tilt to his head, and meaner edge to his eyes than Quentin hadn’t seen before. 

“Well, Frau Weber, it has been enchanting to meet you,” Eliot said before Alice could launch into another missive about the upcoming social season. “But I’m afraid I must take my leave. I have a rehearsal at the Gewandhaus and I have already made my poor reputation for punctuality known I’m afraid.”

Alice laughed and wished him luck, accepting another chivalrous kiss on the hand. 

Eliot backed up, straightening the lapels of his coat. His eyes lingered on Quentin. “Until Saturday evening then, Herr Coldwater? I will have a seat arranged for you again.”

Quentin swallowed, noting the lack of his Christian name in front of Alice. He might have interpreted it as a slight, but the softness of Eliot’s gaze left him hopeful that the omission was of a more intimately intended nature. “That is most kind, Herr Waugh. Until Saturday.”

Eliot bowed his head to both of them, turning on his heel and walking away at a leisurely pace. He checked his pocket watch once, but didn’t seem to be in any particular hurry. Once he was out of earshot, Alice elbowed Quentin in the side. 

“Ow! That’s not very ladylike, Fraulein Quinn,” he hissed, massaging his sore ribs. Alice had always been very pointy. 

She rolled her eyes and grabbed his elbow, dragging him into a nearby tea house. 

“Should I call for the constable?” He whined. “Is this an abduction?”

She sat him down at a table, ignoring him and calling for a waiter with a slender hand, ordering an entire tea service. 

“I already ate, Alice—“

“Hush.” She closed her hand in front of his face. “Friends who don’t share news of their budding acquaintances with famous pianists do not get to talk.”

“When was I possibly going to tell you—“

“Oh please, just last week you were sending correspondence everyday.”

“Yes, but I have been busy—“

“Busy doing what? Talking politics in the cafes with the students? Have you not noticed you are not enrolled anymore?”

“I’ve been _writing_ , Alice,” he whispered, looking around the crowded interior and leaning forward as if it were a precious secret. “Finally, music is coming to me again.”

Alice blinked. 

“But that’s—“ she smiled, beaming at him. “That’s amazing! For how long?”

Quentin ducked his head. “About a week. Since…”

He trailed off. She rapped a fist on the table to get his attention. Her eyes sparkled mischievously. 

“Since what, you scoundrel?”

Quentin blushed, shaking his head. “You are impossible. Since attending Herr Waugh’s concert last Saturday evening.”

Alice leaned against the back of her chair, allowing the waiter to pour them tea and set a plate of pastries before them. She took a decadent looking confection, the cream on top matching the pink trim of her dress.

“I thought he was merely an arrogant showman?”

Quentin rolled his eyes. “This is why I didn’t tell you.”

“Huh.” She took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “This is most intriguing. Tell me more.”

Quentin sighed, playing with the handle of his teacup. “He wants to promote my music. Assist me in the advancement of my career.”

Alice raised her eyebrows, lifting her cup to her lips. “By sponsoring Hoberman in a concert?”

He shook his head. “By playing my music himself.”

Alice slurped into her teacup. She looked around self consciously. A lady at a nearby table eyed them as if they were common street urchins.

Alice lowered her voice to a whisper. “Do you _jest?_ ”

Quentin frowned at the lady until she turned back to her own tea. He was still protective of Alice’s idiosyncrasies. 

“I don’t,” he said. “He’s premiering one of my character pieces on Saturday.”

Alice beamed. “That’s magnificent! _Everyone_ is going to that concert. Several of his supporters from court are even visiting from Vienna.”

He shrugged. 

“Why are you not more excited?” She asked, frowning. 

He took a sip of his tea; it had already gone lukewarm. Without Eliot’s magnetic presence to siphon his anxieties, Quentin found himself in doubt again.

“It will only be the encore, I’m afraid.”

“Only?” Alice asked. “I should think the encore would be a terribly important spot.”

“It means Waugh doesn’t have to list me on the program– doesn’t have to give me credit, as it were.”

Alice looked at him suspiciously. “That sounds like Quentin Coldwater always taking the negative stance. What if he simply wishes to save the best for last?”

Quentin shrugged, his mind already made up. “We shall see if he even plays it.”

Alice scoffed, serving herself a slice of cake now and setting it on the plate next to her half-eaten pastry. 

“He will.”

He added a lump of sugar to his tea. “How are you so sure?”

She shrugged, taking a dainty bite. “He seems quite taken with you.”

Quentin’s hand froze mid-stir. Alice’s smile was gentle now. He shook his head, searching his pockets for a cigarette. 

“Quentin…”

He flipped one into his mouth and flagged the waiter for a match on Alice’s tab. 

“I was only–”

He leaned forward, cutting her off. “Don’t be obscene.”

She pursed her lips. “My friend, I don’t pretend to know the mysteries of your heart, which is why I don’t wear your ring.”

“Alice—“

“You deserve someone who does, however.” She held up a hand. “I only want you to find happiness. And you have been alone for so long.”

He blew a stream of smoke to the side. “A scandal is just what I need to achieve happiness then? The ruination of my career and reputation?”

Alice shrugged. “Is scandal truly what you fear? There are no guarantees, my friend. No guarantees of happiness, but no guarantees of sadness either.”

Quentin didn’t know what to say to that, so he took another pull from the cigarette and a gulp of tea. He longed to be close to Eliot, there was little point in denying it, at least to himself, but despite Alice’s wisdom he had his reasons to be cautious. 

He pitched his voice low. 

“What if he doesn’t feel the same?”

Alice smiled again. “Then you shall survive and take the help with your career. But I think you will find that he does.”

After they finished their tea, Quentin walked Alice home. She promised to attend the concert and talk it up at tea with her lady friends the next day. Any semblance of relaxation he had felt from the visit with his friend dissipated when her blonde head vanished behind the door of her townhouse, especially when he passed by the Waugh’s townhouse on his way back downtown. 

His apartments seemed stuffier than usual that night, the early Spring chill finally giving way to a warmth that came with a creeping humidity. He sat at the piano in his shirtsleeves, hair pulled away from his face, staring at the half-filled manuscript paper that had haunted the back of his thoughts all day. Darkness could creep into his soul at any moment, an eternal curse of everlasting night. Should Waugh not return his feelings, should he only endeavor to associate with Quentin out of pity or philanthropy, he could see himself descending into the same despair that laid ruin to his and Alice’s relationship and drove him to quit his studies. 

He played at a melody on the keyboard, a rising figure. What could describe the night more than one’s desperate pleas to cling to the day? He had been trying to put that feeling— that yearning emptiness— to music since he lived in Zwickau, but he had always come up short. 

He wiped sweat from his brow, setting one hand to the keys and the other with his pen to the page, and began to work.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Destielpasta here. Thank you all again for your /delicious/ feedback on the last chapter, we are feeling the (very romantic *swoon*) love! We have no restraint, so we're posting this next chapter a little early, we are just that excited about it! Now, please mind that this fic is rated Explicit and that some specific sexual content tags have been added. Take care of yourselves friends!
> 
> If you are interested, some historical notes follow this chapter. As always, we recommend listening to the hyperlinked recordings while reading. Some of these pieces are long, I know, but they really give a sense of the characters and the type of music they are making.

The morning of the concert dawned sunny and bright, the cloudiness of the last days fading away. People were out and about on the streets taking the air and walking through the park, smiling and laughing and speaking of Herr Waugh’s exciting concert to be seen that evening. Quentin felt nauseous. 

His normal routine did little to soothe him, his nerves roiling even in his favorite cafe. Each time he looked across the table he saw not an empty seat but the striking visage of Eliot Waugh, gripping his cane and turning another witty phrase as Quentin stuttered over every other word…it was only worsened by the hard bottom of his seat. Quentin’s creative labors the evening before had been fruitful to a point, before they shifted to labors of another sort, done on his back with his fingers oil slick around his cock and inside of him. Eliot’s striking person—his visage, his _hands_ , his tall, imposing body—had factored heavily into his thoughts then as well, as Quentin had indulged shamelessly in Greek dreams about the virtuoso. He had indulged, and now he squirmed, the leftover discomfort only reminding him of the many disappointments that may or may not be in store for him.

He threw several coins down onto the table, his coffee mostly undrunk. 

He passed by several acquaintances, bidding polite _hellos_ and _how do you do’s?_ He never stopped, finding that the anxiety couldn’t catch him if he kept moving. 

Once evening fell, it was unavoidable. 

The Gewandhaus was even more crowded than the evening before, its quaint halls filled to bursting with wealth and trade alike. Alice had been right, a small box of seats had been partitioned off for visiting gentry, their silks and fashionable styles rather overdone for the simple hall. Ladies fanned themselves in the stuffy heat while the gentlemen conversed animatedly, keeping to themselves. 

Quentin was shown to a different seat by the same attendant as the week before, across the aisle from the former. He had remembered to launder his shirt this time, but still felt rather put out amongst the happy concertgoers. He glanced across the aisle at his old seat, finding it occupied by a single lady dressed in a fine blue silk dress in the wide shouldered fashion Alice rarely indulged in, calling it too cosmopolitan for Leipzig. Her gleaming brown hair was done up in a smooth style at the base of her neck with a few artfully curled pieces escaping to frame her pleasingly round face. 

She turned, smiling at Quentin when she caught him staring. He blanched, realizing the importance of her seat: she must be the Lady Margaret Waugh. 

He offered a quick bow of his head without a smile and turned away, a hot blush creeping up his collar at the thought that Eliot had given him his wife’s empty seat at the concert the week before. How people had probably talked— the gossip that it had possibly started— 

Quentin was uncertain if he was horrified or pleased.

He glanced around the hall again, careful to avoid looking at Eliot’s beautiful wife. Where he had greeted guests right up until the moment of his performance the week before, tonight Eliot was nowhere to be found, obviously choosing to remain mysterious behind the curtain. He saw Alice sitting several rows back with her husband, engrossed in the program in her hand. Quentin turned to his own program in his lap. Eliot was slated to perform a paraphrase of a Mozart opera, along with the Hungarian Rhapsody of his own and a Scherzo by a Polish composer. Of course, Waugh was known to add and change his programs as he saw fit. 

As was the custom, the encore was not listed. 

Quentin’s palms sweated and the ink ran onto his hand, staining his fingernails. He swore quietly, dropping the program to the ground and surreptitiously wiping the ink away onto the underside of his seat. It was then that the hall erupted into cheers and applause. 

When he looked up, Eliot was already at the piano taking his starting bow, peeling off his (light lilac, tonight) gloves and tossing them to the side. He did not smile rakishly at the audience, as he had the week before. He looked serious— nervous? It couldn’t possibly be, but Quentin noted a different dip to his brow as he set his hands to the keys. 

The crowd adored the [ Mozart paraphrase ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JI6JfJXcUjU), cheering when they heard familiar melodies soar throughout the hall as if they were sung by a soprano right in front of them. This was how Eliot had achieved fame— he inherently knew what would please an audience and worked toward the goal. His paraphrases were flashy and virtuosic, but now Quentin could see they were intensely flattering to the original composer. A tender flattery really, more than a parody as he had originally thought. 

The crowd leapt to their feet as soon as he played the final note, the energy staying high as he sat back down once more and launched into the scherzo. It was clear that this was a more artistically challenging work, Eliot’s mouth set in a firm line as he worked from each cadence to a new modulation, adding an improvised cadenza to the middle that made the audience gasp at its brilliance. 

As Quentin had thought, Eliot played the first movement of a Beethoven Sonata as a surprise, making the crowd beam in nostalgia at the twinkling of the first chords. He played with sensitivity and passion, moving quickly after the applause into his newest [ Hungarian Rhapsody ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LdH1hSWGFGU). 

It was not Quentin’s taste exactly, but even he was swept along with the rest of the crowd into the exotic modal melodies. It led into such feats of virtuosity that his hands blurred at times, and the virtuoso smiled as the audience cheered and spurred him on. It left Quentin dizzy and intoxicated and when Eliot finished with a flourish he leapt to his feet with the rest of the audience, cheering for an encore. 

It was only when Eliot returned to the stage did he remember what that entailed. 

Quentin’s stomach dropped as Eliot waited for the cheers to die down and for the audience to find their seats again. He held a lace trimmed kerchief in his hands as if he had been drying them before stepping back out on stage. The viewers finally found their sense and took their seats, waiting for whatever his encore would be. 

Quentin gripped the underside of his seat until his knuckles turned white. 

“My dearest friends,” Eliot said, his clear voice ringing out in the hall. “Thank you for your rapt attention and kind applause tonight. Leipzig has been a jewel amongst the idyllic countryside.”

Another smattering of applause. Eliot bowed his thanks. 

“It is almost time for us to part ways for the evening,” he continued, “But before we engage once more in the dreariness of routine and chores, let us remember the true meaning of music— to bring us to the peaks of the sublime, and return us to the world whole again.”

You could hear a pin drop. Quentin glanced to the side at Lady Waugh. She wore a beaming smile— pride, directed at her husband. He turned away, his chest tight. 

Eliot smiled at the waiting crowd. 

“It is my most singular pleasure to premiere a work now by a talented new composer, Quentin Coldwater.” Eliot glanced down at him. Quentin followed the line of his throat as he swallowed, wetting his lips for his next words. Quentin’s heart beat wildly. “I have heard his works for myself and I _know_ that he will come to stand alongside Beethoven as one of the greats.” He waited a moment for the crowd to gasp at his pledge before taking a slight bow and saying:

“Please enjoy, _Des Abends.”_

The crowd applauded again as Eliot took his seat. Quentin’s hands sat still in his lap. 

_His name._ Eliot had not let his work sit in obscurity, safeguarding his reputation. He had spoken loudly and clearly to the audience, and chosen to say Quentin’s name aloud for all to hear. 

So flabbergasted, Quentin only just remembered to listen. 

The first strains of [_Des Abends_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Th2yQeoueDI) sat beautifully under Eliot’s fingers. His cantabile was strong but emotive, and Eliot had been right, of course. His program thus far had contained majesty, virtuosity, and flash— but not yet tenderness. Collectively, the audience relaxed, soothed by the melody of Quentin’s making. 

Every line sang out, every counter was resolved. The voices glided seamlessly between his hands like the smooth surface of water. Open, but full. Twinkling, but grounded. Each cadence resolved with the gentlest of touch. One could easily forget the booming octaves Eliot had hammered out just minutes before. You could lose yourself in the simplicity of his interpretation. He played his work true, without embellishment or ornament, simply a vessel to convey its base meaning. 

It was _Quentin’s_ music, by Eliot’s hands. Something warm bloomed beneath his skin. 

The piece concluded as softly as it began. The applause came slowly, gathering in intensity. The crowd stood once more, whistling and raising their hands above their heads to laud the performance. Quentin stayed seated, dumbstruck. 

Eliot beamed, bowing low, but soon his gaze turned to Quentin once more, and he held out a hand gesturing for him to rise and turn to the crowd. He did, legs shaking. 

Once the crowd realized Eliot’s intentions, they applauded harder, their smiles directed toward Quentin. Alice beamed a few rows back, and Lady Waugh offered him a nod from her close place. 

It seemed to go on forever, until at last the crowd was lowering their hands and breaking into excited cliques to chat about the performance. Quentin found his feet under him once more, and turned back to the stage. 

It was empty, Eliot was gone. Lady Waugh’s seat was empty as well. 

It was silly, undignified, but he had to find him. The way Eliot had looked to him in the crowd— gestured to him, there had been something in his eyes. Something worth exploring as long as Quentin chose bravery over fear. 

He started to move, meaning to weave his way down the aisle and search out Eliot’s dressing room when he heard someone call for him. 

“Herr Coldwater, a moment?”

It was a smooth, female voice, one Quentin did not recognize. He turned, seeing one of the ladies from the private box standing behind him. She had striking red hair done up in ringlets, wearing a dress of deep purple. A gold and diamond brooch sat at her throat. 

“Yes?” He said, near breathless, distracted. 

“I am Lady Irene McAllister.” She extended a pale white hand. “My husband and I were simply _enchanted_ by your piece tonight. Pray tell, do you perform as well?”

“I’m afraid not, Lady McAllister,” he said, bowing over her hand. “Herr Waugh graciously offered to promote my work tonight.”

She smiled, her teeth almost unnaturally white. “I am so glad he did. You must come to court. I’m _sure_ Herr Waugh could secure you a position among the musicians.”

Quentin stuttered. “Court?”

She laughed haughtily. “Why Vienna, of course. I forget how provincial Germany so often is.”

Someone bumped into him from behind, pitching him forward slightly. He stuttered on his next words. “Oh, um, I’m not a court musician, though you flatter me— Lady McAllister.”

She grinned, close mouthed and sly. “We shall see. I have known Eliot to be very... _persuasive_.”

Quentin did not know how to respond to that. He did not miss the use of Eliot’s Christian name. 

“It is goodbye for now,” she said, opening her fan and already looking over his shoulder as if she were bored. “Good night, Herr Coldwater.”

She was gone in the crowd with a swish of her skirts before Quentin could wish her the same sentiments, leaving him slightly cold. Before he could think on it, someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned. 

“Good evening, sir.” It was Todd, he recalled, Waugh’s butler. “Herr Waugh was wondering if you would once again meet with him in his dressing room.”

Quentin’s mouth dried up, but he managed a nod. 

“Very good, sir.”

Todd led the way through the crowds until they were in the back hallway once again. He knocked lightly three times, and Quentin’s heart stuttered when he heard Eliot call out:

“Come in!”

“Herr Coldwater for you, sir,” Todd said, holding the door open for Quentin. He peeked inside: Eliot had removed his coat and sat at his dressing table with a glass of wine. He rose slowly to his feet. 

“Thank you, Todd.” He came to stand at the door, one hand braced against the frame. His gaze kept flicking to Quentin’s as he spoke to his butler. “Please take Lady Margo home, if she is ready. Tell her I will be walking tonight, as the weather is so agreeable.”

“Yes sir.”

Todd was gone with a flip of his tails and Quentin was left alone, standing on the threshold with Eliot looking near indecent in his shirtsleeves before him. 

“Do come in,” he said, his voice huskier than usual, lower. Perhaps from the strain of performing?

Quentin followed him inside the cramped space. Eliot did not return to his seat, or beckon him to sit, instead standing in the middle of the room, his hands open at his sides. Quentin cleared his throat. 

“An inspired concert, Eliot, the paraphrase alone—“

“Did you like it?” Eliot asked, interrupting him. 

Quentin furrowed his brow. Did he like the concert? How could not be enamored by Eliot’s excellent playing, his compositions both original and paraphrased? But Quentin’s reply died on his tongue as he understood. Eliot did not mean the official program. 

“You did not stand,” Eliot said, almost breathless. “After I played your work. I thought perhaps you did not care for my interpretation after all.“ 

Quentin laughed, delighting in Eliot’s earnest concern _._ “Do not take offense. I found myself so astonished that I could not feel my legs.”

Eliot finally smiled, exhaling, the tension draining from his frame before Quentin’s very eyes. “I’m glad. And what I said to the crowd? I did not want you to be an obscure part of my program— I thought on your reservations from earlier in the week and realized what it must have looked like, but my original motive was honest and—“

“Eliot,” Quentin interrupted. “My reservations were small and petty. What you did— how you acknowledged me by name…”

He trailed off, face burning. 

“You must think me forward, as our acquaintance is so new, but—“ he wet his lips, gathering courage. He looked up, meeting Eliot’s eyes. “I already think of you as one of the best of men, perhaps the best that I have been privileged to meet in my life.”

Eliot received the words but did not reply. Quentin noted flush of his cheeks, the brightness of his eyes. He was pleased. 

“I’m sure you are fatigued from your performance,” Quentin continued. “But I have another piece of music to show you, one that I think might interest you.”

Eliot cocked his head. “Do you?” 

They both looked at the small upright piano in the corner, then back at each other.

Quentin swallowed. “It so happens that I don’t have this particular work memorized. It is at my apartment. Would you care to join me there? I believe I have some wine and…”

Quentin trailed off, his stomach a-flutter with nerves. Something passed over Eliot’s face– a question. Quentin swayed nearer into his space, his eyes falling to Eliot’s mouth. An answer.

Eliot broke their gaze, reaching for his coat and throwing it over his shoulders, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. He turned, and some of his old arrogance was in his smile, but also something nervous and different. 

“Well, Quentin, would you lead the way?” 

It felt an age and yet only seconds before they were free of the close air of the Gewandhaus, through the dark streets of Leipzig, and up the creaking stairs of the boardinghouse. Every moment between Eliot’s dressing room and Quentin’s apartment seemed to unveil another shred of certainty between them. Brushing hands, hushed breaths, secret glances, all were shrouded in a rarified silence that neither dared touch until it was shattered by the _thunk_ of the lock on Quentin’s door. 

“I hope you won’t judge me too harshly,” Quentin said to Eliot’s back as he surveyed his humble quarters. “I only thought that here, at least, we could be—um—alone, and—” 

Eliot turned to him, eyes dark in the dim light. Quentin should have lit a lamp, perhaps, but he might as well have been pinned in place. Everything he had been longing for was at his fingertips. That is, if he wasn’t wrong—if after all of this he wasn’t simply, tragically _mistaken—_

Eliot took a step forward and then Quentin’s back was flat against the door. He tipped Quentin’s chin up with a finger, bringing their gazes together. 

“Is this the sort of privacy you were after?” he asked, resting his other hand on the door behind Quentin’s head. He loomed, deliciously, and Quentin had to gasp a breath to reply. 

“ _Yes_.” His skin burned where Eliot touched him. He wanted— he _wanted._

“Thank god,” Eliot sighed, and fit his mouth over Quentin’s. 

It was heaven. Ambrosia. Eliot’s mouth was soft and his hand fit just so to the back of Quentin’s neck, tipping his head back to the perfect angle to receive his lush, eager kisses. Quentin pulled Eliot close by his jacket lapels until he could feel the warmth of him pressing up his whole body, leaning into the door and opening his mouth to the hot pleasure of Eliot’s tongue. Eliot was as skilled in this as he appeared to be in all of his life’s pursuits, taking Quentin in hand with a warm palm at the small of his back. He slowed their kisses until Quentin thought he might lose his sense, tasting Quentin’s top lip, then the bottom before granting him his mouth again in full embrace. Eliot rocked forward against him, and Quentin thrilled to feel the evidence of his desire press against his thigh. He gave himself over wholly, and was rewarded with Eliot’s low groan against his lips. 

Quentin couldn’t contain his whimper as they parted for breath, need throbbing behind his ribs and between his legs.

“Eliot, Eliot I beg you—“

The entreaties spilled helplessly from his lips, but Eliot hushed him, maddeningly collected as he drew his open palms down Quentin’s chest. Through his jacket, waistcoat, shirt and small clothes Quentin still felt his touch: the warm, broad pressure of Eliot’s marvelous hands. One of those hands slipped below Quentin’s belt, a tremor causing the fastening to clink lightly, and Quentin considered that perhaps Eliot was not so collected as he appeared.

“Do you know what I’ve been dreaming of doing to you, Quentin?” Eliot’s voice was low, his face in shadow with only the faint glow of the streetlamps outside to illuminate him. 

“Yes,” Quentin panted, shivering at the press of Eliot’s—dear lord—bare hand to the front of his trousers. He was aroused, there was no question, and Eliot palmed the shape of him expertly. 

“How do you know?” Eliot said, nipping at his jaw. 

“Because I’ve been dreaming of it, too.” Quentin bared his throat for Eliot’s mouth. “The wanting has captured my every thought, waking and asleep.”

Eliot laughed, still touching him. Still driving him _mad._

“A composer and a poet, hm?” He whispered, secret and hot, “Tell me, darling, what other hidden talents do you possess?”

Eliot’s soft, murmured _darling_ threatened to undo him. It shuddered and fizzed down his spine like a sip of absinthe. Quentin swallowed, feeling bold and dangerous enough to reply, “Take me to bed, Herr Waugh, and we shall find out.”

Eliot smiled, and drew his hands away until they clasped Quentin’s fingertips, which was an exciting indulgence all its own. He drew Quentin further into the room, towards—oh yes—towards the bed. He paused, only a step away, pulling each of Quentin’s hands to his lips and then kissing his mouth, sweet and only slightly less than chaste.

“Let me undress you.”

Quentin drew the back of his knuckles down the sleek line of Eliot’s cravat. 

“Only if I can return the favor.” 

It was nearly domestic, tugging off shoes and shrugging out of jackets and waistcoats. Their evening wear could hardly be torn off, no matter how eager their passions. Instead they played valet for each other, helping with cufflinks and buttons, trading lovely, tantalizing kisses all the while. Quentin found a moment to light a lamp, because he’d be damned if he would experience Eliot Waugh in full _dishabille_ and not even be able to _see_ him. In the glow of golden light he removed Eliot’s silk cravat, the luxurious material beneath his fingers nearly as decadent as the pale flesh it revealed as he slipped it from Eliot’s throat. Eliot returned the favor, then looped the length of fabric around Quentin’s shoulders to tug him towards the bed. Kicking off his trousers, Quentin was eager to follow, climbing into Eliot’s lap when he sat. 

As his thighs parted over Eliot’s, Quentin finally allowed himself a moment to take stock of his good fortunes. Eliot’s strong hands steadied him at the waist, spanning nearly across his back. He indulged Quentin brushing the dark curl of his hair back from his eyes, touching his lips and the cleft of his chin with the pad of his thumb. 

“Am I terribly handsome, then?” Eliot asked, good humor warming his lovely features. Quentin wished he could bring himself to laugh, but it was the truth. 

“Terribly,” he managed, voice little more than a whisper. Eliot’s gaze flicked up to meet his, and Quentin saw his own fervent desire impossibly mirrored back at him. He brushed his fingers over the notch beneath Eliot’s Adam’s apple and down to his collarbones. This drew a shaky exhale from Eliot’s lips as he shrugged the bracers from his shoulders. They dropped to the plain coverlet beneath them as Quentin helped Eliot out of his shirt. 

They practically fell back onto the bed, Eliot’s chin tipping back and offering Quentin the worst kind of temptation. He succumbed swiftly, resting on his elbows that he might affix his lips to the pale column of Eliot’s throat. Kissing down to the join of his neck and shoulder he sucked the skin between his teeth, seeking out a bloom of pink and violet against Eliot’s alabaster skin. 

Eliot hissed, grip going tight at his hips, and Quentin pulled back to ask as he remembered himself all in a rush: 

“Will your wife see the marks?” 

But Eliot only laughed, rich and dark as he pulled Quentin’s lips back to his throat. 

“Oh yes,” he said, “My Margo will make me show her each one. She will want every salacious detail after the trouble I’ve put her through pining after you, Herr Coldwater.”

Quentin, still uncertain, could not resist scraping his teeth over the blooming love bite before dropping a quick kiss to the spot, then another to Eliot’s lips. 

“You sound like a man who has found excellent fortune in marriage.” 

Quentin tasted Eliot’s grin as he was rolled onto his back. 

“The very best, I assure you,” he says, parting Quentin’s thighs with purpose. He yielded easily to Eliot’s direction, his worries regarding Lady Waugh dissipating as Eliot boldly tugged Quentin’s drawers down and tossed them aside. Quentin was quite hard now, and Eliot brushed the back of his knuckles against the arch of his cock, only a cruel tease before he pulled his touch away. Instead he braced his hands over Quentin's shoulders, levering his long frame down to take his turn marking the skin of Quentin’s neck. It was—Quentin bent his knees, and fit his hands to Eliot’s shoulders—it was such a rare thing—a rare thing among already rare circumstances—for Quentin to be so small beside his bed partner. 

He had nearly forgotten the thrill of it.

Eliot nosed under the collar of the loose shirt Quentin still wore, a grin playing at his lips as Quentin squirmed under him.

“Something you like?” He asked, unabashed delight in his voice. Quentin was certain he was about to embarrass himself, but he could not help but admit:

“It’s just that you’re so very tall.” 

Eliot let out a low hum, amused as he kissed over Quentin’s bared throat. He covered Quentin so effortlessly, made him feel so safe and enclosed, even in the midst of such a dangerous encounter—

“This is pleasing to you?” 

“Yes, yes—“ Quentin sought a kiss but Eliot playfully denied him, seeking the crook of Quentin’s jaw with his lips instead. 

“Some of the boys take issue with it,” Eliot whispered, his long limbs caging Quentin in. “Rough trade are always so _aware_ of such things.”

Eliot pet his fingers through Quentin’s hair, teasing the shell of his ear in a way that threatened to steal all reason from Quentin’s head.

“Are you like them, Quentin?” He asked. “Will you prove your manhood by putting me in my place?” 

Quentin shook his head, perhaps too quickly. He drew Eliot’s hand to his cock, letting him feel how desperately he desired him.

“I like our places as they are,” he breathed into the scant inches between them. 

Eliot stroked him with a loose fist, eyes alit with something like wonder.

“Oh, darling, you do, don’t you.” 

Eliot pulled him into a kiss then, long and slow and consuming. All Quentin could say when they parted, a fine tremble in his limbs as Eliot slid his touch back between his thighs, was _“_ _Please_ _.”_

“Have no fear,” Eliot promised him. “I will make you mine tonight.” 

Indeed, Quentin knew no fear. He could recall none of his anxieties. There was only his desire, his need, and the press of Eliot’s slicked fingers inside of him, readying him for their lover’s embrace. 

“You receive me so sweetly,” Eliot murmured, adding more of the oil Quentin was able to provide. 

“I can take more,” Quentin breathed into the sweat damp crook of Eliot’s neck. He felt like a man starving, held in sight of a feast. He implored Eliot: “Will you give it to me?”

“All I have to give is yours, if it will bring you pleasure,” Eliot vowed, twisting his fingers one last time before slipping them free of Quentin’s body. He fumbled with the buttons of his trousers, working them down his hips along with his drawers just enough to free his cock.

Quentin’s mouth went quite dry at the sight. Eliot was...well. Quentin would remember his presence in the morning. The thought made him shiver, clenching down where Eliot had worked him wet and open. 

“Your cock will bring me pleasure, as your hands have.” 

“My hands?” Eliot’s voice was husky, one of his fine hands encircling his arousal to give it a firm pump. “You like them as well?” 

Quentin tore his gaze away from Eliot’s cock, jutting proudly from the open vee of his unfastened trousers. 

“Oh yes. On me, inside me—“ Quentin kissed Eliot, softly. “—at the keys, my music flowing through your fingertips.” 

Quentin half expected him to laugh, and he did, but it was breathless. Full of wonder. “It was so intimate,” Eliot murmured, shuddering as he slicked his cock. “Each note a touch from your lips. I had half a mind to ask the hall to turn away. And yet—“

“I know. They were meant to witness our triumph.” Quentin slid his brow against Eliot’s, sharing their breath. “I felt it crest as one learns ecstasy from a lover.”

“Eliot,” he said, utterly taken with the memory, and with the anticipation of what they had yet to share, “You took me to the height of the sublime.” 

Eliot rocked against him, slick and hard. His brow furrowed as their lips brushed, one hand cradling Quentin’s head as the other steadied his cock against Quentin’s waiting entrance.

“Let us meet there again,” he whispered against Quentin’s temple. It was an invitation. A promise. Quentin drew his knee back, offering himself. 

Eliot took him then, for the first time. Willing himself to relax, Quentin breathed through the sweet ache of being filled. Oh, _oh,_ it had been too long, and yet his body remembered. He welcomed Eliot inside, sharing a shuddering breath as Eliot pressed flush against him. 

“Quentin—Q.” Eliot was flushed himself, a bright becoming red blossoming over his cheekbones as he pulled back and pressed in again, a slow, slow drag within him. 

“Is it good? Are you—”

“Yes, yes—Although, perhaps—” Quentin made to reach for the oil, but Eliot stilled him, taking up the glass bottle himself. 

“Shh, say no more, darling.” Eliot tipped more slick between them, perhaps a bit too much, but his next thrust was smooth to the hilt. Quentin rolled his head back against his thin pillow, biting his lip as Eliot drew back again and sank deep. 

“Oh, _yes.”_

Eliot kissed his throat and began to fuck into him in earnest. His hands slid under Quentin’s shirt, finding a home against the sweat slick skin over his ribs. Quentin wrapped his arms around Eliot’s neck and urged him _harder, faster_ until the bed creaked beneath them as they met each other in equal ardor. It was a heady kind of ownership, however temporary, Eliot in his arms, with his lips playing over his jaw and his cock so _thick_ inside him. He was held fast, _possessed_ in a way that none of the few, furtive liaisons from recent months had granted him. 

Eliot freed one hand to press behind Quentin’s knee, stretching him to the edge of comfort but allowing him to sink so much deeper. His other hand, elbow braced against the bed, still could reach to brush a thumb over one of Quentin’s exposed nipples, his shirt now rucked up nearly to his neck. It was a startling attention rarely paid by any of his previous lovers. Quentin moaned, the soft sound broken by Eliot’s steady, urgent lovemaking. 

“You like that.” Eliot took a kiss from Quentin’s willing, slack lips. “You _love_ it.” 

Eliot’s cock dragged in him, rapturous, and Quentin can’t contain his whimper. 

“ _Yes_.”

“Oh Quentin,” Eliot gasped, stroking his chest, _fucking_ him, “I knew it. I knew you would be as exquisite as your music.” 

“You feel so good.” Quentin couldn’t help the words pouring forth from his lips, the passions Eliot drew from him like water from the rock of Moses. “I’ve been wanting you so badly, Eliot—“

“Tell me, tell me—“ 

Eliot’s labors were growing erratic.

“I touched myself.” Quentin let the sin slip from his lips like a confession into his lover’s ear. “I was dreaming of this. I couldn’t help—I came with your name on my lips, alone— _ah_ —alone in this very bed.”

“How did you do it?” Eliot demanded, chest heaving as they rocked together. “How did you pleasure yourself? Just your cock?” 

“No, no—I—between my legs,” Quentin gasped. “I needed—needed you— _Eliot—“_

Eliot responded to this with a cracked groan and several sharp short thrusts that threatened to put Quentin right through his thin mattress before finally stilling. Quentin watched, enraptured, as pleasure writ itself across Eliot’s features. 

This was something _he_ had caused. 

Eliot rocked into him once more, the way now slick with his spend. He kissed him, and pressed their brows together. 

“Q, dearheart, you’ve ruined me,” Eliot murmured, breathless.

Quentin panted into their kiss, still aching for his own release. 

“I think I’m the one who has been ruined,” he replied. Eliot hummed, more than a little pleased. He kissed Quentin softy, stealing the gasp from his lips as he eased his softening cock free of Quentin’s body. So separated, Quentin’s neglected arousal was more obvious than ever. 

“I can see to myself,” he offered softly, strangely embarrassed now that Eliot had finished, “Let me—”

Eliot stopped his words with the touch of his finger to Quentin’s lips. He smiled, eyes hungry again as he shook his head.

“I think not. You have had my cock, and my hands—“ Shuffling down the mattress Eliot knelt off the end of the bed, and with a firm grip at the top of his thighs he dragged Quentin down with him until he could fit his mouth to his cock. 

“Oh _god_ _,”_ slipped from Quentin’s lips, shocked. Eliot freed him, briefly, from his mouth. 

“No, darling, it’s just me,” he replied. He laughed then, at Quentin’s outraged expression, and took him back in, and that was the end of Quentin’s horror at Eliot’s utterly cliche sense of humor. 

Quentin, having his cock sucked by Eliot Waugh, thought he might know in that moment what is must be like to exist as a piano under his fingers. To be an instrument, expertly played, not only in technique but in musicianship. In _passion_. The pleasure built behind his navel, and his ass throbbed where he was still open and wet with the proof of Eliot’s climax.

“ _God_ , you’re beautiful,” Eliot moaned, pulling off of Quentin’s cock. He replaced his lips with his hand, stroking tight and quick as he kissed over Quentin’s hips like a man possessed. Quentin arched beneath him when Eliot’s teeth found his soft lower belly. 

“Eliot, Eliot, please—“ 

“You are mine, and I shall leave you the proof,” Eliot promised, biting him again, and pulling a beautiful red mark to the surface. Quentin writhed at the throb of it. He neared a precipice, brought closer and closer to the edge by the steady pulls of Eliot’s hand and the possessive glint in his eyes. 

“I’m going to—dear God in heaven, I can’t—“

“Good,” Eliot murmured. He twisted his wrist and Quentin spilled helplessly.

Eliot stroked him through it, kneeling up, kissing him on his chest, his throat, his slack mouth as Quentin’s climax pulsed through him and settled. He let Eliot fondle him until he could take no more, pushing his hand from his cock and pulling him back onto the bed.

“You are making the most charming face,” Eliot informed him, smiling blissfully as he stroked Quentin’s hair back from his brow. 

“Please don’t mock me, sir,” Quentin pleaded through a smile of his own, “I am simply astonished.”

Eliot laughed, a warm and sated sound. He pressed a quick kiss to Quentin’s shoulder and rose, making for the small basin of water on Quentin’s chest of drawers. 

Quentin sat up. “Please— let me—“

Eliot turned with a mischievous smile. “Oh no, darling, you have a rest. Or did I not ‘astonish’ you thoroughly enough?”

Quentin shivered deliciously at his frankness because _yes,_ Eliot had worked him to near exhaustion and how completely and utterly unbelievable was that? If you had asked him two weeks before if he thought it was possible that Eliot Waugh, famous composer and virtuoso, would be kissing him softly as he tenderly swiped a damp cloth between his legs, he would have recommended the asylum. 

“Ah—“ Quentin breathed as Eliot touched where he was still most sensitive. He opened his eyes, expecting another rakish grin from Eliot, only to be confronted with an expression of pure kindness. 

“What is it?” Quentin asked, cupping his face with his hand.

Eliot shook his head, instead dipping down to kiss him once more. Quentin arched into it, a moth drawn to a flame. Never had he been kissed so plentifully, and so well. Eliot kissed him as he helped him out of his sweaty, wrinkled shirt. He kissed him as he kicked off his trousers and cast them to the end of the bed. He kissed him as they tucked themselves under the covers, brought close by the width of Quentin’s bed, which was in truth a bit small for two grown men. 

Eliot kissed him goodnight when Quentin could no longer keep his eyes open, exhausted from the high emotions of the evening and the ardent passions of the night. 

“Stay?” Quentin entreated, the word soft and slurred. He was too close to sleep to censor himself, but as he pet his fingers over Eliot’s soft swollen mouth he found the shape of a smile. With his thumb he could feel the first traces of stubble on Eliot’s chin, a close razor shave only having so much power over the passage of time. Eliot took his hand and kissed his fingertips. 

“Fear not, I shan’t steal away in the night,” Eliot promised. Quentin sighed his relief, and slipped away to dreams with his head resting on Eliot’s chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some historical notes:
> 
> Concert etiquette in the early 19th century was very different from today. Audience members were expected to talk and socialize while a variety of performers graced the stage for their entertainment, from pianists to singers to comedy acts (think of a 1920s Vaudeville performance). Now, Eliot here is a very popular performer, so he could hold his own recital and still keep people entertained despite the lack of variety. Clara Schumann and Franz Liszt, both virtuoso pianists of the time, popularized this model of 'one man, one recital' where one performer played serious works in their entirety. This seems like a given, but in actuality playing an entire 10 minute work, such as the Hungarian Rhapsody, would have been considered tacky and over the top for the audience's attention span. You might have noticed that Eliot compensates by playing only one movement of the Beethoven sonata. The two hour long classical concerts that are attended in complete silence today would have been very foreign in the 19th century. Eliot mingles and greets his audience before the performance (this chapter he was especially nervous so he did not ;) Wonder why?) and there's no formal introduction for him. 
> 
> On the music: 
> 
> Réminiscences de Don Juan, S.418 by Franz Liszt: A "paraphrase" of the very popular Mozart opera "Don Giovanni." Paraphrases were popularized by Liszt and were a way of really hooking the audience in because they already knew the tunes associated. This piece is known as one of the flashiest and most difficult pieces in the piano repertoire. 
> 
> Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2 by Franz Liszt: This is one of sixteen Hungarian Rhapsodies by Liszt, and is by far the most famous and extravagant. The most famous moment occurs at minute 5.58 in the recording I linked. This was a "nationalist" composition, as Liszt was ethnically Hungarian and such nationalistic tendencies were in vogue then. 
> 
> Des Abends by Robert Schumann: This is the first in a set of pieces by Schumann. Pioneered by Schumann, these short, emotive, and evocative pieces came to be known as "character pieces." They lack the flash and virtuosity of say, Liszt's pieces, and were very much about evoking a certain emotion or story. 
> 
> Thank you again for all of your support! We appreciate and cherish every single comment.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so much great feedback on the last chapter! We're so excited that so many people are enjoying and resonating with this story. Please enjoy the next installment!

Eliot woke to white moonlight streaming through the window and the small glow of one candle. He shivered in the cool air, rubbing his feet together under the blankets and quilts that covered them. He felt too lazy to rise and check his pocket watch, but the black night outside the window told him it was early morning.

He stretched. His body ached in all the most pleasant ways and he smiled to himself, remembering the sweet exertions that had led him here. Through closed eyes he saw how Quentin had arched off of the bed as he entered him, filled him, brought him to orgasm. He smiled to himself as he heard Quentin’s ardent words of passion, how he moaned and sighed at even the slightest touch from Eliot’s hand. 

He had known Quentin would be beautiful, inspiring– he could not have prepared himself for the extent of it. 

He rolled over, seeking out the warmth on the other side of the narrow bed. Quentin was awake, and faced away from him, his head propped up on one elbow as he read what looked like a curiously folded letter by candlelight. His hair spilled like water across the pillow and down his neck. 

The temptation to reach out and touch became too much to bear, and Eliot had never been one to deny himself. He buried his nose against the back of Quentin’s neck and wound an arm around his waist. Quentin stiffened only for a moment, relaxing into the embrace when Eliot’s hand pressed to his belly. His bent arm went slack, the letter dropping out of Eliot’s sight. 

“It is too early to say good morning, darling,” Eliot murmured against his skin, drawing his lips up and forward until they rested against the shell of Quentin’s ear. “But I always delight in saying hello.”

Quentin shivered, tipping his head back for a kiss. Eliot quickly obliged, bracing his weight on his forearms, enjoying the light scratch from the shadow on Quentin’s face that had grown overnight. Slowly, Quentin drew a hand over Eliot’s chest, dipping lower and drawing circles over his stomach, and down... 

“Eliot.”

Eliot groaned, from the touch and the sweet breathiness of Quentin’s voice wrapping around his name, and drew away. Quentin’s teeth dragged along his lower lip, as if he endeavored to keep him close. Eliot stilled him with a finger to his chin when he tried to seek out his kiss again. 

Quentin’s mouth was left open, and his pupils darkened with desire. Eliot wet his lips, tasting him. Something feral in him longed to see Quentin entrenched in _wanting._

Eliot smiled teasingly. “Will my lover not greet me properly?”

Quentin smiled, wordlessly turning and flattening a hand over Eliot’s chest to press him onto his back. For some time, Eliot knew nothing but the weight of Quentin’s arm across his hip and the warm, wet heat of his mouth. Eyes hooded, he drew Eliot’s cock in deeper and deeper still, using his hand where he couldn’t reach and sucking hard when Eliot gasped out his name into the quiet room. Barely a moment passed before Eliot pulled him up next to him, kissing his sore mouth and bringing him to similar heights with slow pulls of his hand. Quentin shook as he took in each sensation, and Eliot pressed a finger to where his hole was still wet and open for him. He came then, eyes shut tight, as if he couldn’t believe his own truth. His shuddering breaths were warm against Eliot’s cheek. 

They laid in a sticky embrace after, face to face, uncaring. Eliot drew his fingers through Quentin’s soft hair, letting the tresses fall through his fingers like water. 

“You cannot know,” Eliot said quietly. “How I have wished for this moment. When I first saw you I knew you would be mine.”

Quentin laughed softly, turning and pressing a kiss to Eliot’s palm. “I thought I had already made my mutual desire known.”

“I am merely surprised– _pleased,_ so pleased,” Eliot clarified. “That you are relaxed and uninhibited by the anxieties that usually follow such an act.”

Quentin pursed his lips lightly, sitting up slightly, leaning against his hand. “Such acts do not make me anxious, only the unknown that comes before, and the uncertainty that often follows.”

“Oh, I am uncertain, I assure you,” Eliot said seriously. 

Quentin frowned, adorable little distress lines forming on his forehead. “Of what? Do you regret it?”

Eliot sighed, shaking his head and flopping onto his back dramatically and pressing the back of his hand to his forehead like a fainting lady. “I only wallow in uncertainty over where I should kiss you next.”

Quentin harrumphed grumpily, shoving Eliot away playfully and shaking his head. Eliot retaliated by wrestling him onto his back, pinning his wrists to the side of his head and straddling his hips. Quentin smiled, open-mouthed and elated, his hands slack in Eliot’s grip. 

Eliot had been right: he did blush so beautifully. He kissed him everywhere the flush bloomed– which was to say– all over. 

“Will you stay?” Quentin asked, gasping as Eliot’s teeth grazed a pebbled nipple. Eliot smiled to think that he was still tender there. “I mean to say— for the night— can you stay? I had wondered if your wife might worry.”

Eliot laughed breathlessly against his skin, returning to his kiss-red lips to finish his survey. Looking to the night table, he saw several hand-rolled cigarettes. He grabbed one. 

“May I?” 

Quentin nodded, and Eliot settled back on his heels. Quentin supplied him with a match and he lit it. The taste was similar to the tobacco he used. 

“Fear not, Quentin, my wife knows exactly where I am.”

Realization crossed Quentin’s face. “Ah. I remember you saying so much while I…”

Eliot laughed, pulling the collar of his shirt aside. “While you sought to mark me as your own?”

Quentin reached out, sitting up and brushing his fingers over the dark bruise. The other hand settled on Eliot’s hip.

“Can you blame a man for trying to be wise?” Quentin asked. “Even through the fog of such decadent temptation?”

Eliot shivered. Quentin had such lovely hands. 

“Alas, no. I am not immune to such insecurities,” Eliot said, pressing a quick peck to Quentin’s neck. He swung his leg over and re-settled on his back. “I confess, when confronted with not only your former betrothed Alice Weber but with your acquaintance to Julia Wicker, I began to doubt my instincts.”

Quentin laughed, reaching out and plucking the cigarette from Eliot’s mouth once he laid beside him. 

“Alice and I have been friends for longer than we were lovers. Which is better for all parties involved.”

Eliot raised an eyebrow. “Lovers?”

Quentin rolled his eyes, taking a drag. “She did not go to her marriage bed a maiden, I assure you.”

“Huh,” Eliot said, dreadfully amused and painfully curious. “You continue to surprise me, Herr Coldwater. What of my rival? The talented Fraulein Wicker?”

Some of the playfulness disappeared from Quentin’s expression. “Julia… we were children together. I lived in her house in Leipzig for some years as a boy. Her guardian— her father, I mean— taught me piano and composition.”

Eliot turned on his side, tracing his fingers over the slope of Quentin’s waist. 

“She surpassed me, of course,” Quentin continued. “In performance, at least. Though I read that her new concerto was well-reviewed in Moscow.”

Eliot shrugged. “I received it by mail order. I found it slightly derivative, if not accomplished.”

Quentin smiled. “I appreciate that.”

“I am at your service, sir.”

Quentin took another puff of the cigarette, handing it back to Eliot. “Julia never felt for me how I felt for her. We were young… and her guardian is a controlling man. He would never permit a penniless composer to marry her. Her feelings meant little regardless of how indifferent they were.”

Eliot considered. “I hear that Herr Reynard is a formidable man.”

“A fox in a man’s clothing.” Quentin nodded. “To conclude, rest easy. My heart is currently unoccupied.”

Eliot pressed a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “You wound me sir, I was under the impression that you had fallen in love with me upon first sight.”

Quentin snorted, pressing closer. “Careful, Herr Waugh. I fall in love quickly.”

“One can only hope.”

Quentin kissed him for a few lazy moments, whispering against his skin. 

“You must forgive my reservations.” Another kiss to his neck. “Many speak of your affection to your wife as the stuff of legend.”

Eliot smiled, secretly pleased. “Really? Excellent. The world needs to know how my Margo is adored.”

“It sounds as if they are correct.”

Eliot shrugged, running a hand over Quentin’s back. “They are correct. I love my wife more than my own life.”

Quentin’s lips stopped against his throat. 

“Quentin,” Eliot said, reaching out to cup his face with a hand to meet his eyes. Quentin leaned into the touch, the humor gone from his face. “Rest easy. I am not a lady’s man, as you sometimes seem to be. What Margo and I share is nothing so fickle or fleeting as romance.”

Quentin nodded seriously, did not dispute Eliot’s reading of him. “I see.”

Suddenly, Eliot wanted him to understand. 

“I married my dearest friend, Quentin,” he explained, “To protect her, as she protects me in turn. She knows of my true nature and I am perhaps the only man alive capable of understanding hers. We keep no secrets from one another. ”

Quentin considered his words. Thoughtful. Eliot surmised that Quentin did a lot of thinking. He covered Eliot’s hand where it still touched his face and traced the smooth metal of the gold band that adorned Eliot’s fourth finger. Eliot had never taken it off since he had given Margo his vow, nor would he.

“It sounds beautiful,” Quentin said finally, voice low, “You must count yourself very fortunate to love and be loved in return so deeply.” 

Eliot brushed the hair back from Quentin’s brow and pressed a kiss there, his own heart near full to bursting in his chest.

“I do.”

They fell asleep for a few more hours, Quentin’s arms wrapped around his middle. When they woke, Quentin was ready to receive him again, encouraging him with wandering hands and breathless pleas. Eliot moved slowly and gently in him as sunlight warmed them through the flimsy curtains, memorizing each and every soft exclamation of pleasure that fell from Quentin’s mouth. The rhythm of their bodies matched perfectly.

Afterwards, Quentin threw on his trousers and his waistcoat over his shirt, sneaking down to the kitchen to get them something to eat. They ate sweet rolls still warm from the oven with a pot of weak tea in bed, licking the sticky sweet syrup from their fingers. 

Quentin had shed the awkwardness that he had in Eliot’s study and the cafe, and Eliot found him to be most charming company. He used his hands judiciously while he talked, pressing his fingers to his head when he struggled to think of the correct word and walking around the room when a particular topic over-excited him. He spoke frankly of the music and art scene of Leipzig (small and humble, but thriving with support from the public) and of other goals he had when Eliot prompted him. 

“I confess that I often find myself torn between music and the written word,” Quentin explained as they lay against the headboard. “Julia and I were often left alone as children, and became rather imaginative in our play. It left me with a love for stories, the more fantastical the better.”

“That explains your music,” Eliot said, smiling as he envisioned Quentin as a child, creating worlds that only belonged to him. “It is very programmatical. The story is evident in the way you play and describe it.”

Quentin shrugged. “It is as I said. I don’t wish to force stories upon my music, but that is simply as it comes to me.”

“We are slaves to our natures,” Eliot said, taking another sip of tea. “I could no sooner part my music from my own self if I tried. It is a part of me, as your stories are a part of you.”

Quentin smiled. “Precisely.”

A few moments ticked by, and Eliot could have leaned in and kissed him once more. Had him again, this time with his mouth...but the hours grew shorter with each passing minute. 

“I’m afraid it is time to return to reality,” Eliot said, stroking his hand down Quentin’s face. “The outside world awaits with its cruel responsibilities.”

Quentin nodded, shrinking back and retreating a bit into his earlier shyness. “Of course. I hope I haven’t been keeping you?”

Eliot shook his head, leaning forward to press a chaste kiss to his mouth. “I should be lucky for you to keep me,” he whispered against his lips. 

Quentin smiled against his lips. “Will I see you again?”

“I am besotted with you.” He ran a hand down Quentin’s chest, catching on the open button of his waistcoat. “And with your music. I’m afraid I will not be available until tomorrow evening. Can I come see you here?”

Quentin swallowed, want back in his gaze. Eliot felt it too, a new grip around his heart. 

“Of course. I do have more music for you, that part wasn’t a lie. It’s just that we found ourselves…”

“Otherwise occupied?”

Quentin smiled. “Precisely.”

With his promise to return fresh in the air, only then did Quentin allow him to leave the bed to dress. His concert clothes felt limp and rumpled from spending an evening on the floor, but they would suffice to get him home. 

Quentin stood to see him out. 

“The cook will let you out the back entrance,” He said. “There is little to fear, my landlady excels in turning a blind eye.”

Eliot raised his eyebrow cheekily. “It seems we are both similarly blessed. Me in wives, you in landladies.”

Quentin shook his head with a smile but kissed him again before checking the hallway for passerby that might see the famous Eliot Waugh leaving the bohemian apartment of a little-known composer. 

He did as Quentin said, walking gingerly through the sleeping house as the sun began to rise in earnest. He passed through the kitchen on his way to the back door, and received a scone and a smile from the cook. He wondered rakishly how many visitors Quentin Coldwater received in his apartments for the staff to be so adjusted. The thought made him smile as he exited the house. 

Outside, Leipzig was coming alive. Peddlers were setting up shop and the streets slowly filled with carriages. Eliot needed to return home to change and check his schedule for the day. He was engaged to appear at several prominent households, and had been previously excited to mingle with new company. As he turned up his collar against the wind, he confessed to himself that in this instance he would have rather stayed in bed with Quentin the whole day through. 

He arrived home just as the city clock struck eight. Todd received him at the back door, as if he had seen him coming. 

“Good morning, sir.”

He handed Todd his hat. “Good morning. I trust Lady Margo arrived home safely last night?”

“Without a hitch, sir.”

Eliot smiled. “Excellent. I imagine she still sleeps?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I won’t wake her then.” He winked at Todd, and the butler smiled. There would be time to recount every detail to his wife. “I will require a change of clothes, and some coffee sent to my room.”

“Very good, sir. Might I ask how your performance went?”

Eliot took the stairs two at a time, whistling a tune to himself. 

“It was excellent, Todd. Thank you for asking.”

Once freshly dressed and with the buzz of coffee under his skin, he set out to meet the public for the day. He visited the homes of Leipzig’s elite, humbly receiving their compliments from the evening before. Several admirers wanted him to play their pianos in their homes, as if he were Christ laying hands on the sick. Others wished for him to hear and comment on their young student’s performances, giving a “master’s” opinion. He did all with good humor and his usual cheerfulness, but his mind was distracted. His thoughts returned quickly to the stage where he had received his applause– applause that he had barely heard. Quentin’s eyes had shone too brightly at him, jubilant and confused and full of honest admiration, even from his seat. 

“Herr Waugh? Is something the matter?”

Eliot jerked out of his daydream, the eyes of his company staring at him with aristocratic concern. He straightened, smiling. 

“Nothing at all, I grow tired after large performances. Lady McCallister, what were you saying?”

The esteemed lady smiled, her teeth only slightly less pointed that they had appeared in Eliot’s memory. He inwardly grimaced. She and her family had traveled far to hear him perform in Leipzig, and his attention was the least he could offer in return for their continued patronage. 

“Only that we were so charmed by the quaint work you played for your encore.” She took a dainty sip of her tea. “I had the pleasure of meeting Herr Coldwater afterwards.”

Eliot smiled at the mention of Quentin’s name, picturing how his nervous new lover would have stuttered while confronted with the gentry. He wished he had been there to see it. 

“Did you? I am fortunate to have met him,” He said. “He is a most brilliant new mind and composer. I hope to promote his works while I am here. To help the advancement of his career.”

McCallister tutted. “Only whilst you are here? Surely he has enough composed for you to bring his music back to Vienna.”

Eliot kept his smile steady. “I would love to assist him in any manner I can.”

She nodded. “I’m sure you will do just that. You always had a special way with people, Eliot.”

His given name, said with such tenderness by Quentin, was venom in Irene’s mouth. He quickly changed the subject to that of the upcoming social season. 

It seemed like days had passed by the time he arrived back home, the sun already falling into the orange light of early evening. He let himself in, hanging up his hat and coat on the worn stand. Fen rounded the corner, one of Margo’s day dresses folded carefully over her arm. 

“Good evening, Herr Waugh. Lady Margo just drew a bath. Will you be joining her?”

Eliot smiled. “I think that will do nicely. Send Todd up to assist me?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Margo was already deep into a dark amber bottle of claret by the time he entered the small bathing room. She hadn’t bothered tying up her shining brown curls, and they floated atop the water as she grinned at him over the rim of her glass. 

“So nice of you join me, dear,” she said as Eliot shrugged out of his robe and sunk into the steaming, lavender scented water. “And my, you do look rosy with the touch of love this evening. Did you give Herr Coldwater my regards?”

Eliot glanced at where Fen was still gathering up Margo’s underclothes. 

“More hot water, Herr Waugh?”

“No, Fen, thank you.” 

She curtsied with a smile and left them alone. 

Eliot raised his eyebrows at Margo. “Are we not keeping up appearances for the servants now?”

Margo waved a hand, pouring him a glass of wine from a tray next to the tub. “I’ve been filling Fen in on your exploits every night like the latest novel, you cad.”

“And what does she say?”

She handed Eliot the glass. 

“‘Indeed, my lady,’ ‘Oh? My lady,’ and ‘That does sound terribly interesting, my lady,’” Margo parroted in a charming impersonation of her ladies’ maid, “Fen is a dear, but I’m afraid I look to you for a properly vicious appreciation of my gossip.” 

“Of which I am the sole subject.” Eliot sipped his wine and sank down to his chin in the steaming water with a contented sigh. He had to bend his knees to accommodate his lanky frame, but the heat leeching the stiffness from his shoulders was well worth it. “Are you truly so bored, Bambi?”

“Well the _modiste_ —a term I use generously—and the milliner have both benefited from my generous patronage,” Margo recounted, her elbows resting along the lip of the tub indolently, “Yesterday I visited the haberdashery to order you several more pairs of gloves—”

“I do tend to go through them, don’t I?” Eliot mused. 

“—Thus we have single handedly bolstered the entire economy of Leipzig,” Margo concluded, “As there is no further purchasing for me to do, I find myself at ends and hungry for the sordid details of my husband’s philandering.” 

Eliot flicked a bit of water in Margo’s direction in a chastising manner.

“‘Philandering’,” he repeated, appalled, “As though I could even conceive of such a thing.”

“A ridiculous notion, to be sure,” Margo agreed with bright eyes, “But how was Herr Coldwater?”

With a hand pressed to his heart Eliot tipped his head back against the lip of the tub with an air of pure bliss. 

“Ravishing,” he admitted, “My love, I am in love.”

Margo took another sip of her claret. “I’m happy for you. Tell me all.”

Eliot did, and Margo did not disappoint him. She was the very best audience, gasping and giggling in all the right places. He spoke of Quentin’s poetry, the way he had nearly fainted in his arms upon receiving Eliot’s first kiss. Quentin had been nervous, to be sure, but not fearful. He bloomed for him like a flower in the warm morning sunlight, and Eliot’s voice trembled more than once as he recounted the tale. 

“I had him twice,” Eliot sighed, letting his head fall back in sweet remembrance. “The exclamations of his mouth will haunt my dreams forevermore.”

“And he had you as well, by the look of things,” Margo pointed out, tapping the base of her neck where Eliot knew his own flesh proudly bore the bruising evidence of Quentin’s ardor.

“He has me, even now,” Eliot sighed, “His fierce touches and his soft ones both have me well captured.”

Eliot laughed then, remembering his and Quentin’s conversation after the love bite was delivered. 

“You know, he was quite nervous about treading in your territory,” Eliot told Margo, “Marking me, keeping me out until the early morning. I found it terribly endearing.” 

Margo scoffed. “He didn’t want your nag beating down his door, no doubt.” 

Eliot shook his head, thoughtful. “He said what you and I have is beautiful.”

“What we have?” Margo’s brown eyes were sharp. “Eliot—”

“I know it was a risk, darling, but you should have seen his face when I said that I loved you,” Eliot continued, “All at once it became important that he knew I wasn’t breaking your heart, nor did I intend to toy with his.”

“Don’t you?” Margo asked, not unkindly. Eliot shook his head again. 

“No.” Eliot let the taste of claret give him pause to gather his thoughts. “Quentin said I was lucky to be loved by you. To be able to give you my love in return.” 

Eliot tangled their fingers together at the lip of the tub. “He’s right, my dear. I hope I tell you that often enough.” 

Margo laughed, flicking water at him, though her cheeks were pink. Eliot could tell she was pleased with his words, and Eliot vowed to make such declarations more frequently.

“Your Quentin sounds like a singular man,” she said, “And entirely too sentimental. In that I think you are well matched.”

“Hm,” Eliot mused. “I do think he has me beat in that regard.”

“Either way, I will be happy when you’ve sated yourself and we can carry on back to Vienna.” She yawned, stretching her feet out enough that Eliot felt her toes against his hip. “At least there we will have our own tub for conversations such as these. This tin pot is not big enough for my giant of a husband.”

“Quentin did not so much mind my height.”

She rolled her eyes, but smiled. “I’m sure he didn’t.” 

Eliot pursed his lips as Margo hummed tunelessly to herself. In all truth, he felt a twinge of guilt twitch in his gut. He hadn’t given much thought to Vienna, to his responsibilities there, in weeks. He had seen a fine letter with a gilded seal on his desk that morning, no doubt gently summoning him back to court. Ignoring it had been simple. 

Eliot rose, reaching for one of the fluffy towels stacked on the shelf before stepping out of the tub. 

“Never fear, my love, two more concerts and then we shall be back home.”

“Thanks to God,” Margo said, stretching out her legs. She always stayed longer than him. “Not that I don’t love touring with you, sweet, but won’t you pick somewhere interesting next time? St. Petersburg maybe? I’m sure Idri would love to host us.”

If Eliot were a modest man he would have blushed at the mention of Russian Duke who had so expertly made love to him so many times while on his Imperial tour. He was not, and he had his eyes set on something much humbler as of late. 

“Indeed he might,” Eliot said, wrapping a towel around his waist. “But no, my love, that’s enough of touring for a while. When we return to Vienna we will be properly settled for as long as possible.”

Margo smiled, and Eliot flowed inside to know she was pleased. She stood, and Eliot held a towel out into which she could step. 

“Glad to hear it,” she said, rising to her tiptoes to press a quick kiss to his lips. “But do have your fun darling, good times are so hard to come by these days.”

She set off for her room, and Eliot followed. Tomorrow, he would see Quentin again. Now, it was time for sleep with his wife in his arms. 

* * *

_My dear Q,_

_Russia is devastatingly cold. Spring seems still so far off and the days are far shorter than should be allowed. Kady always says that I should begin letters with talk of the weather, so there, I have done it._

_I had addressed several letters to Heidelberg before realizing that you no longer resided there. Luckily, Alice doesn’t neglect her correspondence as much as you and I hope she saw fit to pass along this letter. By the time you receive this I shall be able to send you a letter at your true residence._

_I assume you discontinued your studies, which does not surprise me, as your last letter had not been written word at all but a draft of your lovely “Aufschwung.” I confess that I play it often, it sits so delightfully in the hand, which pleases the genteel Umber. However, the chaos of the rhythmic stresses satisfies Ember with little difficulty. All the citizens of Fillory delight in its whimsy. A well-rounded, satisfying work— Bravo!_

_(Father gets upset when I mention our childhood companions, but I have not forgotten them!)_

_I have been working on getting father to allow me to perform it on my next program in St. Petersburg, but no success yet. Nevertheless, I am so happy that you are composing once again. You certainly have the mind for the law, but what a waste it would have been. Send me more music, I shall devour it with both hands and sharpened teeth._

_I am also happy that you are in Leipzig once more. It always suited you so well, with its quaint and lovely Gewandhaus. How I miss the way music echoes there. Have you had luck with securing performers for your works? (Again, I wish it could be me.)_

_My performances have been well-received, but I do miss the comforts of home. Russia feels cold and exotic, and I long for the warmth of your friendship and conversation once more. Stay put in Leipzig, I will be home soon._

_Your friend,_

_Julia_

_P.S. I almost forgot, did you manage to see Eliot Waugh perform in Leipzig? The hack— I imagine he had the entire city under his wily spell. Do tell me you still find him as distasteful as ever?_

Quentin set the letter back on his night table, sighing. A day and a half had passed since Eliot had left him alone in his apartment once more with ought but the memory of his touch. Quentin had been ecstatic in the hours that followed, smiling, his limbs alight with energy. He had sat down at the piano, intending to compose a love song— something so tender as to describe the night of passion he had just experienced— but he had reread Julia’s letter instead. Reread, and reread, and…

He shook his head, picking up the letter just once more. He hadn’t been trying to avoid Julia, but her correspondence held a certain bitterness for him. She often referred to their childhood fantasies, the world they had created while Reynard left them alone between practice sessions. Instead of fond nostalgia, he had the nagging sense that she was trying to _appease_ him in some way. Keep him quiet and happy so as to not draw attention to how they had quarreled near hours before she had disappeared into a carriage set for Russia last Fall. 

Fillory had been their escape, a place they could invent and call entirely their own. 

The fantasy faded when Quentin left Leipzig to return home to his studies and Julia continued her disciplined practice at the piano. Doors that had flown open for her had been firmly shut in his face, and her gentle but condescending words reminded him of the precariousness of his position. There was no room for such fantasies then.

 _I am besotted with you_ _,_ Eliot’s voice echoed in his ear. _And with your music._

Quentin had kissed him then, even as his thoughts had wandered. 

_I believe you,_ he had wanted to say. _But for how long?_

Eliot was due to visit him when the sun went down, and worry churned in Quentin’s belly. What if Waugh was found out sneaking into his apartments, their arrangement suddenly a toxic scandal that would sweep through Leipzig like wildfire through dry brush? What if Eliot came but was different from what Quentin remembered, his mind so often tricking him into believing one reality? The tender man who had held him tight might simply be a facade for the egotistical performer from Vienna, a mask he delights in to ensnare the hearts of young men…

He swallowed. What if Eliot simply didn’t come at all?

He laid in bed, staring at the ceiling watching the shadows thin until it was high noon, and then late afternoon. He should go for a walk, go to the cafe, maybe pay Alice a visit. All the possibilities set his teeth on edge, not wanting the world to see him just yet. 

“Herr Coldwater!” His landlady banged on his door. “I wanted to check and make sure you were alright.”

Quentin closed his eyes, willing himself to stay still enough that she would think he had left early before breakfast. His chances were slight, odds were the entire staff knew by now that he had had hosted a visitor the night before. 

_I fall in love quickly,_ he had said to Eliot, his voice teasing but the sentiment entirely honest. Eliot had taken it flirtatiously, as was logical to do after sharing only one night of physical passion. But Eliot must know— he must know that he is so easy to fall in love with. Even now Quentin dwelled on the joy of his full laugh, his clever fingers, the way he had held fast to him during their lovemaking— he wondered how anyone could resist. 

She did not call again, and Quentin heard her uneven gait as she made her way to the staircase. He sat up, rubbing vigorously at his eyes. He fetched a clean sheet of paper and sat at his desk, deciding that he would write a response to Julia. Perhaps he should tell her of his new business partnership; it would be fun to imagine her rage as she read that he was commiserating with her greatest rival. 

She could have her crowds and applause, he would have this. 

He finally located his pot of ink but found that his spitefulness had faded by the time he was ready to set pen to paper. Instead he drew tiny pictures in the corner of the paper— wasteful, but a better use for his restless mind than scornful letter writing. He drew a piano, with a tall and gangly figure next to it playing the keys with long fingers. The figure played standing up. Next to him was a short and cross looking woman with Julia’s curly hair, a pinched and jealous expression on her face. 

He cocked his head to the side. Not a bad likeness. 

After another tick of the clock, he crumpled the paper and tossed it over his shoulder. His mother’s voice echoed in his mind, something about wastefulness. He ignored it, taking a fresh sheet from inside his desk, he began to write again. 

_Julia,_

He scratched the meager greeting out as soon as he wrote it. 

_Dear Julia,_ he wrote instead, knowing she would sense immediately if he were engaging in any form of pettiness. 

_The weather in Leipzig is much the same as it always is this time of year. A meager description, will it satisfy Kady? I will wait earnestly for her ruling._

_It is curious that you should mention Eliot Waugh, for I have made acquaintance with him since his residences in Leipzig coincided with a showcase of my works just one week ago. I find him to be a singular man possessing true artistry and expression at the piano. His playing contains a_ maturity _I have not yet seen from any other_

He stopped, mid-sentence, his anger draining from him in a rush like a cup overflowing. What good would it do to anger and further alienate one of his few friends? Julia had been by his side for years before beginning her career, supporting his compositions and performance career alike. Eliot Waugh had breezed into his world a scant two weeks ago, and Quentin couldn’t depend on the longevity of his affections, no matter how ardently he felt for him now, or firmly he had held him with his hands. 

Quentin’s eyes fluttered shut. Oh, but how those _hands_ had held him. 

He rose, abandoning the letter to instead seat himself at the piano. A melody had come to him in the hours after Eliot’s departure, before his anxieties had smothered all his creative urge along with a healthy dose of spirits he had taken to mollify them. It sat before his eyes, just a thin, single line waiting beside a messy treble clef. He played it, plucking out each note as if strumming a guitar and not the piano. He played it again, louder, separate, _non-legato_.

A sharp thump came from below his feet. Someone in the lower apartment was hitting a broomstick to the ceiling. It was getting late in the evening for him to be playing. His heart raced as the sun disappeared.

He lowered his eyes to the keys. He played it once more, and this time slowly, smoothly, with a tender touch. He sent the keys down slowly, feeling the resistance as the hammers met the old strings. 

He sat back. 

“Huh” he muttered to himself, picking up his pen. “Not bad.”

He tried a few harmonizations, but none struck him, drawing away from the simplicity of the melody. He was crossing out the fourth version when a soft knock came from the door. 

He leapt to his feet, scrambling to button his waistcoat and smooth his hair back. It felt stringy and limp under his fingers, so he dove for a strip of leather on his night table to secure it back from his face. Stumbling over a stack of books, he nearly smacked into his own door by the time he got hold of the doorknob and pulled it open.

Eliot leaned against the doorframe, six feet of pure indulgence, a thick piece of brown bread and butter in his hand. He smiled with a closed mouth, eyes sparkling.

“I believe the cook thinks me too thin,” he said, taking a bite, chewing slowly. 

He was so close, Quentin could see the curl of his eyelashes. His breath seized his chest. By God, Eliot Waugh was beautiful. 

“Do come in,” he stuttered, stepping aside to allow him entrance.

Quentin closed the door and turned to greet him properly, his stomach twisting with nerves, but Eliot proved again that there was simply no time for Quentin’s usual awkwardness. Eliot’s hands were on his face in an instant, soft yet firm, their bodies close. The bread lay discarded on Quentin’s desk. Eliot tilted his face up so that their eyes could meet. 

“Tell me you have thought of me,” he whispered, his lips brushing the corner of Quentin’s mouth like the wings of a butterfly. “Since we parted.”

Quentin exhaled. His breath shook. 

“I have thought of little else.”

Eliot smiled, his eyes already fluttering closed as he pressed forward to give Quentin an honest kiss. His lips tasted of salted butter and the stubble dusting his face scratched slightly. Quentin’s hands hovered, unsure, before settling on the width of Eliot’s shoulders, trailing down his firm chest to thumb at his waist. Eliot sighed into his mouth, walking him backwards toward the bed. 

When they fell atop it, Eliot’s long form over him with a hand already fussing at his buttons (why had Quentin bothered to dress at all?), Quentin’s earlier nerves dissipated. 

Eliot kissed him and undressed him and had him, this time with Quentin on his front and Eliot draped over his back. Quentin met every thrust of his hips, seeking to drive him wild, until Eliot pinned him flat to the bed and rocked into him, their bodies meeting at every possible point and his arms around his front. Quentin sobbed into the sheets when Eliot came inside of him, his mouth a sharp bite to the back of his neck. 

After, Eliot turned him over and kissed him everywhere, mouth hot and his movements lazy and sated.

“Eliot–” Quentin breathed, arousal already stirring in him again.

“Shhh, Quentin….” Eliot whispered, pressing a lush kiss over Quentin’s breastbone. “I’m tasting the sublime.”

Quentin couldn’t help but laugh. Eliot returned it and kissed him with a smiling mouth. He tangled their feet together underneath the blanket. 

“I am disappointed in myself,” Eliot said after their heartbeats quieted. “I came here with the purest of intentions. To listen to your music, as you had promised me more.”

“I for one am glad your intentions did not remain so pure…” Quentin reached out, running a fingertip around the shell of Eliot’s ear. He leaned in, aiming to kiss between his neck and shoulder. 

“A temptress!” Eliot exclaimed, voice breathless with false indignation. He rolled out of Quentin’s arms, feet hitting the floor with a thump. “You cannot distract me forever.”

Quentin laughed and shook his head against the pillow.

He lifted his head when he heard the shuffling of papers to see Eliot rifling through the manuscript paper that had been sitting on his music stand. Quentin gasped, surging out of bed.

“No, no, no,” Eliot teased, holding the stack just out of his reach when Quentin tried to snatch them away. “I believe I am entitled to look and take my pick.”

On top of the stack Quentin could see the little trifle of a melody he had composed just today. It was still _very_ unfit for Eliot’s eyes, as were most of the half-baked compositions he held clenched in his fingers. Quentin chased him around the bed for them, laughing and wondering what a ridiculous picture they must make– two grown men clothed in nothing but their skins.

Quentin pinned Eliot to the wall next to the door, but Eliot still held the papers out of his reach, one arm stretched over his head. They were both breathless, flushed, and Quentin tried a new approach. 

He traced a hand down Eliot’s bare side. He tensed, inhaling. Quentin grinned, brushing his fingers over Eliot’s ribs next.

“You cheat, sir,” Eliot said, collapsing in a fit of laughter at Quentin’s tickling. “You use trickery to get what you want.”

“And you use your height.” With his other hand, Quentin plucked the stack of papers from Eliot’s hand. “So I say we are even.”

Eliot shook his head, but Quentin turned from him, shoving the papers in a bottom desk drawer and grabbing his shirt from the floor to pull over his head. Eliot approached from behind him, taking his waist between his two strong hands and whispering in his ear. 

“Show me.” His voice was pitched low. A command, or perhaps a plea. Clearly seduction was his next method. “Show me, I wish to know the music that’s in your heart.”

Pretty words. This must be a great amusement for Eliot, a distraction from the doldrums of Leipzig in between his performances. And yet, Quentin found himself tipping his head back, leaning into Eliot’s words as if they were the same as the touch to his skin. 

“Nothing is finished yet,” Quentin said as Eliot kissed his neck. “I had hoped to have something finished and polished to present to you today– I can’t give you a mere sketch.”

“A sketch from your hand would be likened to a masterpiece from Michaelangelo.” His lips dropped to his shoulder. “Were you so enthralled with thoughts of me that you found yourself unable to work?”

“I…” Quentin’s head rested on Eliot’s shoulder, his hand reaching up to cup the back of his neck, drawing his wicked mouth impossibly closer. Arousal stirred low once more. “Eliot…”

Eliot’s touch disappeared. Quentin turned, missing it already, to see him pulling a shirt over his head. He sat on the bed, a picture of innocence and virtuous patience, as if Quentin wasn’t already hard under his clothes from his touch alone. 

“I will wait,” he said. “Denial is the sweetest pleasure. I will watch you work, and you will be able to finish.”

Quentin blinked. “You wish for me to finish tonight?”

Eliot smiled coyly. “Oh darling, I’d assumed you already had.”

Quentin smiled, huffing a husky laugh. “You are… impossible.”

Eliot shrugged elegantly. “I would not have my lover be so unsatisfied. Now, don’t leave me waiting. Don’t labor over each note. Let it flow from you like divine intervention. I wish to see music worthy of the gods.”

Quentin held his gaze for a moment. Eliot was flushed as well, and Quentin shivered to think that he had a mutual effect on the worldly gentleman before him. He could have had him again, Quentin would have been clay in his hands, but Eliot had stopped himself. 

Quentin’s music was an equal temptation. 

Quentin rifled through the bottom desk drawer until he came upon a composition that was almost finished. It was the same he had attempted to write the evening after meeting Eliot in the cafe and feeling doubt over whether his feelings were true or a figment of his often overactive imagination. He smiled to himself, looking at the nervous writing, thinking of how quaint his past-self had been. 

He laid a blanket over the top of the old upright piano, muffling the sound, and set the sheets on the stand. Without another word, he began. 

The music came to him almost immediately, even with Eliot’s eyes heavy on him as he worked. He barely had to touch the piano, the lines and harmonies so alive in his mind. He added more where it had been lacking, and took away where the music required sparseness. Eliot stayed completely still as a statue. Quentin would not have been able to stand it if he had moved, or commented on his choices, but he merely sat as witness to the creation. 

However, with the last stroke of his pen to set the double bar line, Eliot moved. In a second, he already had the composition in his hand and was nudging Quentin off of the piano bench. 

“Eliot, let me make a fresh copy at least— it’s full of errors—“

“I will correct them,” Eliot said curtly, the keys already under his hands. The music sprung from them instantly, fully formed as his eyes darted over the page as if Quentin’s messy handwriting was typeset. 

His eyes were consuming, hungry. Though Quentin stood behind him with his hands chastely empty at his sides, having Eliot so desperate for his music was almost like a touch, a caress onto his bare skin that rivaled their heated coupling just hours ago. 

The work itself was reminiscent of an earlier draft he had started upon while on holiday from law school in Zwickau. His mother had tried to play it on their old home piano while he visited, squinting hard at the polyrhythms and struggling to make the melody shine through the texture, giving up after two attempts. 

_Incomprehensible, Quentin,_ she had said with a calculated roll of her eyes, _If you are going to compose, would it cause you pain to compose something playable?_

His mother’s words echoed helplessly in his mind, unable to threaten the happiness he felt as he beheld the [ _melody_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y-G31W7AJlA) _,_ heard for the first time through the texture under Eliot’s capable fingers. He could play it himself, but Eliot brought with him a reckless abandon in his playing; he cared not for the conventions of technique Quentin had been drilled on his youth by the tyrannical Herr Reynard, transcending them to create instant art that broke through the barriers of time. 

When he reached the end he turned, beaming at Quentin. 

“ _Fantastic._ It takes you to a different world– Never have I been so transported.”

Quentin nodded, eyes darting around the room nervously at the praise. Where had the confident and suave Quentin gone? He didn’t know. 

“I had hoped to invoke the night… darkness.”

“ _In der Nacht,”_ Eliot whispered, resting his hand on the fallboard. “Before it was the evening, gentle and still clinging to the light. But this… plunges us into darkness.”

Quentin smiled, remembering Julia’s letter. “Just so. There is order in the evening, but chaos in the night.”

“You say you wish to make this a set?”

Quentin nodded. 

Eliot smiled. “I am privileged to be witness to its making.”

Eliot played it again, and then played it consecutively with _Des Abends_ and _Aufschwung_. Eliot asked for more, but Quentin refused gently. 

“Next time,” he said, playing with the hair at the nape of Eliot’s neck. “I promise.”

Eliot stayed the night again, and then the next night after leaving for the day again. The second time he arrived at Quentin’s door he pulled him inside, pressing him back against the door and kissing him with all passion with which Eliot kissed him. Eliot responded with delight. 

He did not ask for more music, but Quentin saw him look toward the piano with interest. 

“I think I shall play your _Aufschwung_ on Saturday,” he said while he set up a picnic on the floor of Quentin’s bedroom. _If we cannot dine on the lovely banks of the White Elster_ , he had said while spreading out the blanket, _We can at least eat as if we were._

“Oh?” Quentin responded, uncorking the wine. He poured Eliot a glass. 

“Yes,” Eliot mused, taking a sip. “ _In der Nacht_ is tricky, and I wish to do it justice. I think I shall premiere it in on my last concert. Or in Vienna.”

The mention of Eliot’s home city made Quentin pause. Eliot had not spoke of Vienna since securing the extra concerts at the Gewandhaus. Quentin had never visited, hearing only tales of the shining city secondhand. 

“They must miss you at court,” Quentin said, tearing off a hunk of bread. 

Eliot shrugged, taking a bite of cheese. “I’m lucky. The Emperor— he is not a hard man. My duties are flexible, and mostly extend to me showing my face every few months. He enjoys when I am there but knows I am needed elsewhere.”

He lay back on the checkered blanket, setting his head in Quentin’s lap. “I will be back at Hofburg soon enough,” Eliot continued, the sly smile Quentin had come to know well gracing his lips again. “Until then, I would like to enjoy the charms of Leipzig for as long as I can.”

Quentin carded his fingers through Eliot’s hair, playfully smiling back. “Ah yes, the charms of Leipzig. The most singular being my boarding house.”

“Of course, it should be the number one attraction listed in the pamphlets.” Eliot’s teasing didn’t have any grit behind it, however, and he soon became distracted with Quentin’s hand, drawing it to his moud and kissing each pad of his finger with equal thoughtfulness one would put towards writing a very important letter. 

They did finish their picnic, but only after Quentin had his fill of Eliot. 

It became a habit, a routine that soothed Quentin’s nervous mind and brought him a new layer of peace each day. Eliot visited each evening, and with Eliot came _music_ , pouring from him at rates he had never known. Each touch became a melody, every kiss transformed into a counter, and when Eliot left for the day to attend engagements or return home to see his wife, the most delicious suspensions— held until he ached for resolution. 

He received it. 

Finally listening to Alice’s advice and to his internal monologue, he abandoned the symphony, accepting his hate for it and instead turned his full attention to compositions for the piano. He continued building a suite around _Aufschwung_ , a book of fantasy he thought of it as, and Eliot barely gave him time let the ink dry before he had the next installment under his fingers. It was as if he were writing a novel and Eliot the reader greedily waiting for a new chapter. For the first time, Quentin heard his music in reality as he heard it in his head. 

Somehow, Eliot made his quaint melodies into magic, bringing listeners into new worlds with each stroke of the keys. 

“It is of another world, pure and simple,” Eliot said on Friday evening, the night before his next concert. He had just finished playing through Quentin’s draft of the next work [ _Warum?_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J-vhtnSbuiM) He wore only his shirtsleeves, his hair a halo of wild curls in the humidity. “A question without an answer, I take it?”

Quentin sat on the edge of the bed, making revisions to _Des Abends_. “In a way. It’s– uh. Very autobiographical.”

Eliot swung around, crossing his ankles and smiling, the very picture of interest. _Go on,_ the look said, _I’m interested in all your have to say_. Sometimes Quentin felt overwhelmed by that look. 

“It is only that–” Quentin started, trying to wrangle his scrambling thoughts and make them abide by the will of his mouth. “ _Des Abends_ is the nature of order, peace and equilibrium in my soul. _Aufschwung_ is that of chaos. Passion. _Warum_ is the order asking chaos why it must be so loud and raucous.”

Eliot laughed, but his smile was enchanted, not teasing. 

“The suite is a conversation then?”

Quentin nodded, relaxing his shoulders slightly. “Precisely. Between the parts of myself that contain order and chaos.”

Eliot was fascinated and asked for more explanation, more music, always _more_ of Quentin as if he could not get enough. Quentin held back from telling him about Ember and Umber, the childhood fantasies of his and Julia’s seeming too immature to voice, but Eliot was no stranger to philosophy. His wonder at the world was more pragmatic, but still there. 

“I often believe music is our attempt to create order where there is chaos,” he said. “Sound is a wild thing. You need only listen to the streets in the early morning to know that. And yet we tame it, gentle it, bring it to heed. It is no wonder composers are not gentlemen.”

 _No,_ Quentin thought minutes later when he dropped to his knees before Eliot, taking him into his mouth and feeling his hand settle possessively in his hair. _We are not gentlemen._

The week passed him by in a frenzy of composing and love making, and before he could get his bearings under him it was Saturday once more, and time for Eliot’s penultimate recital. Eliot promised him another seat up front, and when the evening came he put on his best suit and made his way to the Gewandhaus. 

This time the attendant only nodded to him upon entry, letting him find his own familiar seat without instruction. He responded to a few polite greetings and compliments from audience members mentioning Eliot’s encore from the week before. He blushed and tried not to stammer through his hellos and thank yous. They were numerous enough that by the time he made it to the front, it was almost time for the concert to begin. 

He dropped into his seat, checking his pocket watch. Eliot was at the end of the adjacent row, greeting a few guests before he was due to take to the stage. He wore a jacket of deep crimson with a black waistcoat, and Quentin wondered how he had managed to fit so many different suits in his traveling wardrobe. He met Quentin’s eyes and offered a warm smile. Quentin returned it, but Eliot’s gaze was already cast over his shoulder at someone new. He winked, and Quentin heard a laugh beside him. 

When Quentin turned to look, the previously empty seat beside was now filled by none other than the Lady Margaret Waugh. Her lips were pursed with a suppressed smile as she exchanged a silent conversation with Eliot across the room. 

When Eliot moved on, her gaze settled on Quentin. 

“I suppose it is time we met, Herr Coldwater.”

Her voice was cool and smooth, but not unfriendly. She wore a deep purple dress this week with a white lace frill at the neckline. Shining pearls dropped from her ears and her skirts fanned out wide before her, fashionable shorter to show off cunning belted leather boots. Quentin’s eyes were drawn to the shining ring she wore on the third finger of her right hand. 

“It is an honor,” he stammered, like a fool. “My lady,” he tacked on at the last moment. 

She laughed softly with a closed mouth. “Such ceremony in such a simple place. I’m afraid I’m only a lady in legacy now, but it is so good to be reminded.”

Quentin nodded politely, wracking his mind for something to say and for all he knew of Lady Margaret Waugh. She was the youngest daughter a lesser Earl, married to the famous pianist Eliot Waugh these three years. It had been somewhat of a scandal among the Gentry, since Eliot was not titled and a musician. However, he was a prized artist and the official composer of the court of Vienna, so the match had not been too outlandish. 

“Eliot has played your music for me everyday since he discovered it,” she continued, opening a black fan to move around the close air of the concert hall. “I find your pieces so wonderfully quaint. How long have you been composing?”

“Since I was boy, I’m afraid.” Afraid? What was he afraid of? He was on his way to embarrassing himself. 

“Lovely,” she said, unfazed by his lack of social graces. “I am so glad that my husband and I are able to contribute to your success.”

Quentin blushed in earnest at the mention of Eliot. He remembered the bites he had left along the line of Eliot’s throat. 

_My Margo will make me show her each one,_ Eliot had said. _She will want every salacious detail after the trouble I’ve put her through pining after you._

Quentin wondered what it must be like to trust someone so thoroughly. To take a life partner without the promise of romance or carnal passions that whisked so many couples to the altar, and to share your true natures and bear your souls to one another. He had Eliot’s temporary love, to be sure, but the woman before him had his heart. 

“I am grateful to both of you for the help,” he said, his voice finally evening out. Eliot was across the hall now, chatting with a few of the more humble patrons that were seated in the back. “He is a gracious man, your husband.”

She nodded. “I always thought so. He is in a buoyant mood as of late, and I know I must have you to thank for that.”

Quentin’s face burned down to his cravat at her words, and she smiled like a fox. In that moment, the crowd burst into applause because Eliot was bounding up to the stage, bowing low to receive it. His wife joined in, and Quentin clapped his hands slowly as he tried to unclench his stomach, knot by knot. 

It was another excellent concert. Eliot enchanted the crowd with original works and the newest that had come through Vienna and Paris, and concluded the first half of his program with _Aufschwung_. Quentin applauded loudly after each work and after the astounding cadenzas, enjoying the commentary Lady Waugh provided. 

“I swear he could barely play this sonata this afternoon. The man needs the stage to find true success.”

And then:

“He concocted this cadenza while eating a meat pie with his other hand, swearing up and down that one-handed cadenzas would be the newest craze. The maid had to find a stick from the outside to clean the crumbs from between the keys–”

And finally:

“Honestly though, the Mozart again? Even Leipzig has the ability to be bored.”

By the time Eliot had played his encore, Quentin found himself laughing and at ease with Lady Waugh’s quick wit and humor to assist him. He felt buoyant himself, smiling when Eliot appeared shortly after leaving the stage.

“I see you have met,” he said, taking his wife’s arm and beaming at the both of them. “I am guilty in orchestrating such a meeting. Clever seating always wins out in the end.”

Quentin nodded, trying not to let the awkwardness set in and ruin Eliot’s brilliant smile. “Lady Margaret has been most illuminating of your compositional techniques.”

Eliot feigned surprise. “Betrayed by my own wife, the thought! I hope you haven’t been too forthcoming, Lady Margaret?”

Lady Waugh rolled her eyes, playfully tapping Eliot on the arm. “Don’t be mean, Eliot, we are among the public. I go by Margo, Herr Coldwater, unless you are my father. For your future reference.”

Quentin nodded, returning her warm smile. They made quite a pair. He tall and all limbs with a touch a wild beauty, her small and compact and handsome to be sure. Her eyes shone with humor and secrets. Eliot set his hand against the small of her back, a very public gesture of possessiveness. 

“We must be going, I’m afraid,” Eliot said, some of the warmth disappearing from his gaze. His eyes were penetrating now, as if he were trying to convey a message to Quentin. “Until tomorrow, Herr Coldwater? I have a few revisions to _Traumes Wirren_ that I would like to share with you.”

Quentin nodded. “I look forward to it. And it was a pleasure meeting you at last, Lady Margo.”

He offered a polite bow and then they were gone, cutting a glamorous figure amongst the drab citizens of Leipzig. They were, after all, half the show the had come to see. Eliot’s playing was magnificent, to be sure, but he brought with him a sophistication and poise that even the most stubborn and humble shopkeeper couldn’t resist. 

He walked home alone, the streets clear and the night warm. It hadn’t rained in a blessed few days, and the dirt crunched pleasantly under his feet. He let himself into the boarding house, bypassing what looked like a rousing game of cards at the dining room table and heading straight for his room. 

After shedding his coat and unbuttoning his cuffs, he found himself again at the piano, staring at the stack of manuscript paper that held the entirety of his suite, starting with _Des Abends_ . He tried to remember how Eliot had looked, that day in his parlor when Quentin had decided against all better judgement to sit down and play for a man he knew would become legend. _I am going to make you a God_ , he had said, and yet– when Eliot had looked at him then Quentin had never felt more like a man. 

He reached for a clean sheet of manuscript paper and his pen. 

As he set pen to paper and his fingers to the keys, he heard bells. [ Bells ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bgIIwTbnmEY)– clanging throughout city. He saw children laughing in the streets and trailing colorful ribbons behind them. He saw a bride, beautiful in her luminous gown and heavy train that contrasted with her dark hair done up in the same style Lady Margo had worn that evening. By her side, a tall bridegroom stood, his arm wound around hers. He wore a yellow waistcoat and smiled even as his brown curls fell into his eyes…

Quentin paused. Of course, this journey of music would end with a wedding. A harmony between order and chaos finally, and a pledge to live out their days together. It began with the evening, and ended with the day. It would have a happy ending, unlike so much of life he had seen. 

Yet as he recorded each note and tried them at the piano, he felt the joy start to fade. The bells turned into a music box, tinny and poorly struck, halfway wound. Uncertainty crept in, anxiety. 

Chaos would never completely give way to order. There would be no wedding for him. 

He sat back when he finished, looking upon his finished work, so quickly sprung from him like Athena from the head of Zeus. He scratched a title to the top: 

_Ende vom Lied_

‘The End of the Song–’for what had this work been but a song without words? What had these weeks been, but a story yet without an ending?

He screwed the top back onto the ink bottle, fanning the papers to speed their drying before setting _Ende vom Lied_ with the rest of the suite. Feeling the strange weight of completion, he remembered the evening he had first shown Eliot _In Der Nacht,_ how he had played it like a possessed madman and then turned to him a frenzy: 

_Fantastic,_ Eliot had said. 

Quentin would name the set after the passionate outburst: a fantasy. They would be a sweet release from reality for any who chose to partake in their charm. He scratched the title at the top of _Des Abends,_ a hot prick of tears behind his eyes. They were finished. How appropriate that they were completed at the same time of Eliot’s coming departure? 

Quentin sighed, running a hand through his hair. He collected the papers and stored them in the bottom drawer of his desk, standing to ready himself for bed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more notes on the music for those who are interested:
> 
> Quentin's "Fantasy" is based on the real suite "Fatansiestucke op. 12" by Robert Schumann. Schumann composed these works as an ode to the different parts of his personality, who he named "Floristan" and "Eusebius." Floristan was the more passionate, wild part of himself, whereas Eusebius was more genteel and logical. "Des Abends" represents the lovely Eusebius, while "Aufschwung" is all passionate Floristan. Works like "In Der Nacht" represent the war between these two aspects of his personality. Schumann wrote extensively of these feelings in journals and letters, a trait I believe 19th century Quentin would also espouse. If you would like to listen to the entire suite, I recommend the Arthur Rubinstein or Martha Argerich recordings on youtube. It's great to listen to with a cup of tea and a good pair of headphones if you can. 
> 
> A little historical note: 
> 
> Eliot mentions that Quentin's music is "programmatical," meaning that it has a specific meaning. Quentin titles his works and explains that they have a story or meaning behind them that is more than just the music itself. "Absolute" music is music only for music's sake, and doesn't have a greater meaning beyond it. For example, Beethoven symphonies don't represent anything, they are just music. Composers and musicians of the 19th century debated extensively over which type of music is the "best" or "truest" type of music, leading up to a lot of anti-program music sentiment in the early 20th century. We are just now getting back to program music after almost a century of art music having to be sterilized of all possible extra-musical meaning. 
> 
> Thank you as always to those who comment, we treasure each and every one.


	6. Chapter 6

Eliot woke late the morning following his concert, the sky outside the window milky with clouds and the air thick with fog. He shifted slightly, trying to alleviate the pressure on his arm where it had gone numb beneath him in the night, a task made even trickier by the warm and sleeping Margo tucked against his chest. 

He sighed, contentment settling heavy in his bones. He had a lover once more– a quiet and serious man who created sunshine with one smile; who made music for him to share with the world. A lover who, he thought quietly to himself, bowed shyly over his wife’s hand and showed her the respect she was due. 

Margo stirred, as if she could hear her name in his thoughts. He wrapped an arm around her and rolled onto his back so that she rested on his chest, her loose hair splayed across his bare skin. 

“It’s cold,” she groaned, a little bitterness in her tone. 

He kissed the top of her head. “And foggy.”

She blew a tendril of her own hair away where it had fallen in front of her eyes and sat up, adjusting the neck of her hand-embroidered chemise where it had twisted around her shoulders in the night. Margo had a passion for lovely underclothes, and Eliot often mourned that the options for men were so limited. 

Fen entered after a soft knock and “Good Morning, Lady Margo. Herr Waugh,” having learned her quickly in her employment to not surprise Lady Margo when in her marriage bed with her husband. She opened the curtains to allow in the very little cold light and stoked the fire. Blessedly, the room began to warm up and Eliot let the blankets fall away slightly as he sat up. 

“What are your plans for today? Church and tea with the ladies?” Margo asked him, yawning wide as Fen set a heavy breakfast tray over her lap. “Is the textile guild going to present you with a trophy now?”

Eliot gave her a side eye for her snide remarks, but didn’t answer right away, daydreaming. His only definite plan was to visit Quentin at some point in the day.

“Oh, this and that, love.”

Todd entered behind Fen, setting Eliot’s tray down on the bedside table. Eliot noticed a small letter sitting atop the tray, crossed with green-stemmed carnation of the palest pink. 

He smiled at the charm of it. “What is this, Todd?”

“It arrived for you early this morning, sir. Cook tried to put it in a vase but I insisted you would like to see it first.”

“You were correct in saying so.” Eliot smiled, taking the flower and holding it to his nose. “Oh Todd, will anyone ever understand me as you do?”

Margo barked a laugh as she broke into her soft boiled egg. Todd blushed as Eliot waxed on and on.

“If only my shrill wife could see how our love is written in the stars–”

Todd reddened to crimson, but smiled good-naturedly. It was an old banter between them.

“Indeed, sir. Shall I fetch the letter opener?”

Eliot ceased his teasing but kept a grin, his curiosity for the letter surpassing his desire to joke with his butler. “That would be delightful, Todd.”

Once he breached the red waxen seal, Eliot immediately recognized Quentin’s small and scratchy handwriting. His eyes hungrily absorbed the scant text.   


_Dear Eliot,_

_I had not thought to bring you a flower until after the conclusion of your performance, when your magnificence was only an echo in my mind as I fell asleep. I give it to you now, with my constant and unending adoration for your artistry._

_I am, ever your friend,_

_Quentin_

Eliot sighed, flopping dramatically back onto the pillows as Margo slathered a piece of bread with jam. She wafted it under his nose but he was too busy pressing the letter to his heart and letting his eyes fall shut. He visualized the way Quentin had beamed at him from the audience only a few short hours ago with all his affection written plainly on his beautiful face. 

“How can I eat?” he waxed dramatically. “How can I be sated by mere bread when I am in _love_ with a handsome, poetic composer, my lady?”

“That is quite a predicament.” Margo said, her mouth full of his breakfast. “Let me see it.”

He relinquished the letter to her. She squinted, too vain to wear the reading glasses that her doctor recommended. 

“He has talent, this one.” She said, nodding her approval. “One would think he was trying to court you.”

Eliot beamed. “I can only hope that is his intention.” When he looked at her, she was watching him curiously, chewing slowly and smiling. “What?” he asked.

“Nothing. It’s just that I haven’t seen you so happy in…” she trailed off, shrugging. “Perhaps I never have.”

He sat up quickly, pecking her on the cheek. “I believe it is a close second to the day you agreed to be my wife, but only just.”

She rolled her eyes, handing him the letter. He tucked it away in his dresser drawer for safe keeping. 

Todd helped Eliot dress for the day (the brown coat Quentin had such an eye for, and the maroon waistcoat with the small floral print), and then he was off to see Quentin, a spring in his step. Passerby greeted him as he walked, congratulating him on another successful recital. It was very provincial and humble, and Eliot would miss the modest praises of the simple folk of Leipzig when he returned to the swooning and fainting masses of Vienna.

On his way, he ducked inside the haberdashery to see if Margo’s order for his new gloves had been filled, curious to see the style and fabric selections she had made in such rural circumstances. The shopkeeper, a very small and nervous man, radiated anxiety as soon as Eliot entered.

“I’m afraid your order is not ready yet, sir, I mean– Herr Waugh– but could I interest you in any other of our fine wears? A new pocket-watch, perhaps?”

Eliot smiled kindly at the man, about to politely refuse when his gaze was drawn to a lovely display of neckties and cravats. He was struck with an idea. 

“Actually, my good sir, I was wondering if you could help me with…”

Not forty minutes later Eliot exited the shop with a thin package wrapped in white paper under his arm. 

With most of their rendezvous occurring under the protective shroud of darkness, Eliot didn’t often enter through the front entrance of Quentin’s boarding house. Not that the staff or patrons of the colorful downtown house were so easily scandalized, but there were certain measures one took in these situations, no matter how amorous the encounter or how oblivious the landlady. 

However, with the sun high over his head and their legitimate business partnership as excuse, Eliot knocked on the front door and was received without a problem. 

“Herr Coldwater is in the common room, I saw him in there just an hour ago,” the landlady said in place of a traditional greeting while her young daughter clung to her skirts. “Queer behavior for him– usually he keeps to his own room.”

Eliot pursed his lips in worry, but thanked her without additional comment. She directed him down a narrow hallway and to the right. Quentin sat on a bench in the dingy parlor, nestled against the cloudy window, a letter held up to his eyes. 

Eliot leaned against the doorframe, watching him. 

“What has you so enraptured?”

Quentin started, looking up and smiling when he saw him. Eliot fancied himself somewhat knowledgeable about his lover’s smiles at this juncture in their relationship– this one was sad, unreaching to his eyes. 

“Eliot,” he said, folding the letter and stowing it in his coat pocket. “I– just a letter. Nothing so important.” He moved over, beckoning for Eliot to sit next to him. “How are you? Did you enjoy your evening?”

“I did,” Eliot said, sitting down and setting his package beside him. “I worried– I hope you did not take it negatively, that I– “ He lowered his voice. “That I did not come to you last night. The Lady Margo and I– we have our rituals and last night was one of those occasions.”

Quentin insisted on keeping his small, sad smile.

“You need not explain.” He tucked a stray piece of hair behind his ear. Eliot’s fingers itched. “You have every right to enjoy an evening with your wife.”

Eliot nodded. In this room he could not lean forward and kiss Quentin, or even take his hand. It left him with a numbness akin to paralysis. 

“I received your letter,” Eliot said, changing the subject. “And your token. Both brought me much joy upon waking this morning.”

“I’m glad,” Quentin said. “I will never be able to thank you enough for what you have done for me.”

Eliot shifted forward. “You needn’t even think of it. I am—“ he didn’t know how many times he could tell Quentin that it was his _pleasure_ , truly, to help him without it sounding… expectant. “It is my privilege, Quentin.”

Quentin inhaled, nodding and looking away. He brushed his hands over his own thighs, flexing his fingers. 

“As you say,” he said. He glanced over Eliot, nodding at the long white package beside him. “What did you bring?”

Eliot smiled, feeling a lift in the air as he tapped his fingertips over the white paper covering his gift for Quentin. “It’s a surprise. For you.”

Quentin’s eyes brightened in curiosity. “Oh?”

Eliot pitched his voice to a whisper. “Don’t think me indecent, but I would like for us to be alone when you open it.”

“I only hope you are being indecent,” Quentin whispered, some of the signature brightness back in his eyes. 

Eliot gasped under his breath. “Scoundrel.”

They carried on a loud conversation in the hallway concerning Quentin showing Eliot his latest composition, all businesslike hand gestures and much clearing of throats until they were safe behind the closed door of Quentin’s apartment. Carefully setting his package upon the bed, Eliot took his face between two hands and kissed him properly, pressing him up against the door until Quentin was breathless against him. He circled his hands around Eliot’s wrists, as if to hold him there.

“We cannot—“ Eliot gasped against his lips. “I must give you my gift—“ Quentin pressed his palm to the front of his trousers. 

“Give it to me later,” Quentin practically moaned.

Eliot nearly gave in, Quentin’s mouth hot and sweet and his hands roaming freely now. But then he remembered the funny expression on Quentin’s face when he found him in the common room, the way he seemed to wear sadness like a second suit of clothes. He was a man who obviously knew the pang of loss, his hands greedy like a starving man, pulling at Eliot’s clothes and licking deeper into his mouth. 

_If this is a mere dalliance to him_ , Eliot thought to himself. _Perhaps he wishes to lose himself in me as I do in him_. 

In that moment, Eliot wished for the opposite. Not to lose, but to find. 

“Quentin,” he said against his lips, pulling back.

“What is it?” Quentin asked, voice husky. Eliot saw a new type of shine in his eyes– not the sort that came from happiness. 

“I—“ Eliot breathed, uncertain of his words as a sailor setting off for uncharted territory. “I wonder if we should stop.”

Quentin’s eyes widened to the size of coins. “If that’s what you want, of course—“

Eliot felt him pull away, and in his panic crowded him closer to the door, taking his two hands between his own.

“Darling, do not misunderstand me.” He brought his hands to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. “I want you–more than words can say– but I sense that there is more consuming you today than our romance.”

Quentin met his gaze. 

“Ah.” He let his hands slip from Eliot’s grip and stepped away from his embrace. This time Eliot didn’t stop him. Instead he watched him wring his hands and pull his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t wish to burden you with my… maladies.”

Eliot furrowed his brow. “Are you ill?”

Quentin squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. “No– it’s not as simple as that.”

“Quentin,” Eliot said again, stepping towards him with his hands open. “If you wish for a distraction, I can provide. But if you wish for something else... I can try my hand at that as well.”

Quentin lifted his gaze again, looking at him as if searching for an answer. The right answer, if there was such a thing. He looked away, sighing and lowering himself to sit on the bed. 

“I received a letter from my mother. From Zwickau. ”

Eliot bit his lip, sitting beside him. “I see. I hope all is well?”

“It is.” Quentin looked at his hands in his lap. “My father passed last year— there is still much to sort out I’m afraid.”

Something pulled at Eliot’s heart. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you,” Quentin said, looking up. “He had been ill, an old soldier’s wound that had been festering finally got the better of him… anyway, my mother simply worries.”

“How so?”

“For me. She worries that I’m not living up to my potential. That I am on the road to ruin.”

“Is it because of…” Eliot gestured to the two of them together. “The company you keep in the evening?”

Quentin laughed once. “No. She doesn’t take issue with that.”

Eliot furrowed his brow, confused by the answer. “Then in what way would she have you change your current circumstances?”

Quentin shrugged, leaning back on his hands. 

“Go back to Heidelberg, for one.” There was a note of bitterness in his voice. “Give up my compositions, the piano, everything I hold dear. She tries to invoke his— my father’s memory to further her agenda but—“ He waved a hand, as if swatting a fly. “I don’t wish to bore you. It’s of little consequence.”

“Anything that takes your smile away from me is of great consequence.” Eliot took his hand, lacing their fingers together in his lap. “You can speak to me frankly, if you wish.”

Quentin looked at their joined hands. His throat clicked in the quiet room when he swallowed. 

“She is disappointed in my— in me, if I am being honest,” he admitted.

“Does she not approve of musicians?”

Quentin shook his head. “She approves of musicians enough, if she believes they possess the proper talent and training. It’s me she doesn’t support. Her faith in me is slim.”

“How unfortunate. Not to mention woefully misplaced.”

“A month after my move here she stopped sending me any allowance for support. Now she uses it to dangle over my head in hopes of starving me out until I give in. And as long as my brother is away in the Navy I have no say...” Quentin shrugged. “She’s not to be swayed. Music is not a suitable career for me, in her eyes.”

Eliot furrowed his brow, trying to understand. “That just _cannot_ be. Has she heard your music? Has she seen how it can stir a crowd? If she did she would surely understand.”

Quentin shook his head, drawing his hand away from Eliot’s grip. That was the second time he had shied from him. 

“It’s not my music, specifically, though it’s true that she doesn’t think much of it. She thinks that this life– the uncertainty and uncivilized nature of it– she thinks that it will break my mind.” He sighed, again nervously pulling on his own fingers, especially favoring the third finger of his left hand. “Sometimes I become… overwhelmed and—“ he stopped, swallowing and searching for the words. “I find myself sick with melancholia. She thinks that my father was indulgent of it, soft with me, and I wonder if she was right and it has made it worse now that I’m a man.” 

Quentin paused. Eliot waited, letting the silence hang in the air. 

“I was in the common room today because I found myself stricken with old feelings, after I read her letter. Not as intense as usual, but enough. I know it’s better to not be by myself at those times.”

Eliot watched him. The tension Quentin held in his shoulders, the way his words seemed choked and half-said, as if he struggled to say them at all. 

“In my experience,” Eliot started, “Softness will never hurt you. It seems that your father obviously cared for you, and one who cares for you will never be cruel intentionally. Your mother invokes his memory incorrectly, if I can be so bold.”

“Your words are kind.” Quentin stood and drifted to the small window beside his bed, resting an elbow upon the sill. With his other hand he pushed aside the strands of hair back that had fallen loose over his eyes. 

“I do not mean to speak down to you, darling,” Eliot replied, “I only know in my dark moments I have always wished for more kindness, never less.” 

Quentin laughed, but it was an angry sound.

“How I wish this were darkness, when it struck me,” he confessed, meeting Eliot’s gaze once more, “Darkness I can _use_ . You must know, I have heard your wilder compositions. Fear, anger, _passion_ , however poisonous, can become music on the page, stirring and powerful.” 

Quentin sighed. “What an audience cannot hear is silence, and that is what drowns me, in these fits. What I live in fear of. It leaves me deaf and dumb, crumpled into the smallest parts of myself.” He rested his forehead in his hand. “I only wonder if I did something to deserve such a curse– if that is what it truly is. You cannot know what it means to be truly weakened by your own mind. To be too weak to _control_ it.”

The words hung in the air for a long moment. Eliot stood, suddenly feeling overwarm in the small apartment. He stripped off his jacket, folding it over the back of Quentin’s chair. 

“I think often of the night I first performed _Des Abends,”_ he said, remembering the way the soft candlelight of his dressing room had warmed Quentin’s already flushed complexion. “When you came to see me behind the stage, I– you looked at me in such a way that I felt true fear.”

Quentin looked up, furrowing his brow. “What could have possibly made you afraid?”

Eliot shook his head. “As you may recall, I spoke very little, no matter how sweet and genuine your confessions.” His neck flushed. “You were so brave, you see. You risked everything for me, and I sat back and let you.”

Eliot watched as Quentin turned the words over in his head. 

“You did kiss me,” he said, smiling, as if remembering the moment.

Eliot mirrored it, but with a bitter edge. “I did. Once I fully knew of your intentions, of course.”

Quentin shrugged. “It is a dangerous world for men like us.”

“And yet you faced that danger. You told me you thought of me as the best of men,” Eliot said, emphasizing each point with a wave of his hand. “I fear you were mistaken. I have been small, cruel, petty— in my life I have made many mistakes.”

Quentin straightened. “You are hard on yourself, sir.”

“And you are not?” Eliot retorted. “You blame yourself for a malady out of your conscious control and yet I cannot critique my own flaws of character?”

Quentin bit his lip. He did not answer. 

“I am—“ Eliot laughed, though it rang flat in the still air. “—I am practically a giant, by civilized standards, but I also know what it is to feel small. I have been called a lesser man because of my nature, and I know well that those voices can stem from within, as well as without. It is fear, plain and simple.” 

Quentin exhaled, his chest caving as if he were under a great weight. His eyes shone brightly in the afternoon light, as if brimming with unshed tears. 

“How can we be free of it? How can you–” Quentin stopped, wetting his lips and staring at the ceiling. “How can I be worthy of you like this?”

Eliot crossed the room, dropping to one knee before Quentin in supplication. His heart beat wildly with need, the need to make Quentin _see._ He took his right hand between his own.

“Oh my darling– I cannot speak to knowledge of your malady, but I can treasure it as part of you,” Eliot continued, “As you must treasure my arrogance, and my vanity, and my constant indulgence in drink. If this is the tax on your companionship I pay it happily.”

Quentin smiled, laughing softly as if in disbelief.

“It’s true, our time together has been short. Our next hour together is uncertain, nevermind tomorrow.” Eliot swallowed, wanting his voice to ring clear and true. “I only know that when I close my eyes, I see you.” The words fell faster from his lips than his mind could consider them. “When I play the piano, I feel your skin under my fingers. All the music I have composed these last weeks is you. I have–” He shook his head. “You must know. You must.”

Quentin leaned back on his heels, looking at the ceiling. He was overwhelmed, flushed from emotion and Eliot’s words, no doubt. Eliot had said many a pretty word to many a pretty man in his lifetime, always choosing them carefully, always calculating to create a romance so beautiful it could be hung in a museum. 

Now, the words tumbled from his mouth as a rushing river meets the cliffside. Without artistry, without a plan.

“You must know that I love you, Quentin.”

Quentin made a small noise, finally meeting his eyes once again. Eliot smiled, the dark brown of Quentin’s eyes a tremendous comfort even now as he knelt at his feet, chest torn open and his heart laid out for his lover’s analysis. 

“I could never think you weak,” Eliot added, squeezing his hand. “Because I am a man _in love_. The question is whether you will accept that love.”

Eliot waited. He wouldn’t reach out this time, he needed to wait, to be patient. To see. To know Quentin’s desire was equal to his own. The reason was unimportant– distraction, pleasure, companionship, _love_ – Eliot could be satisfied with any of these, regardless of his own ardent feelings. What mattered was the wanting itself. That Quentin was not simply available for Eliot’s taking, but willing to grasp hold of Eliot’s love when it was offered.

His patience was justified when Quentin squeezed his hand and pulled him to his feet. He fisted his hands in the lapels of his coat and kissed him– deep, aching and tender. 

“Eliot,” He gasped against his lips, a whisper. “Stay. Stay, tonight– if you can. And tomorrow–”

Another kiss. Eliot flushed with happiness. Quentin’s arms wound around him, embracing him. 

_“ Yes_ _,”_ Eliot said, sweeping Quentin’s hair back from his face. “Whatever you wish.”

He pressed his hand to the back of Quentin’s neck, a familiar motion for them now– Eliot smiled against his lips at the thought of them becoming so _familiar._ Quentin’s arms wound around his neck and he stood up on his toes to get closer, always closer. 

“And the day after?” He asked, pleading.

“If you will have me,” Eliot breathed against his skin. “I will come to you, _always_ , if you will have me.”

Quentin’s breath quickened more with each affirmation from Eliot’s mouth, leaning into his kisses like a lifeline upon the open sea. Finally, he walked Eliot backwards, pushing him onto the bed and straddling his hips. His hands worked quickly over the mandatory fastenings of their clothes until they were flesh to flesh at the waist and hip, both of their cocks in one of Quentin’s strong and capable hands. 

Eliot gasped, throwing his head back against the thin pillows as he hardened.

“My love—“

Quentin cut him off with another kiss, this one to his open mouth— a kiss that threatened to penetrate Eliot’s very soul. His being. Eliot opened for him, lowering his knees to better allow Quentin to grind their hips together as his hand expertly worked them over. Eliot submitted to his passion and wrapped his arms around him, hanging on for dear life. 

Quentin broke away to gasp into his mouth. 

“Would you stay forever? Would you wake next to me each day, if you could?”

Eliot kneaded his hands down Quentin’s back, the heat of him burning even through his waistcoat and shirt. Quentin pulled until the knot of Eliot’s cravat came free and he could press his open mouth to the heated skin there. 

“Yes— _Yes—_ always—“ Eliot answered, tipping his head back to allow better access. 

Quentin twisted his hand, drawing a moan from him like water from a well. 

“My love,” Eliot gasped, finding himself on the edge of reason. Betwixt and entangled with passion and… something else. “My _darling_ love.”

Quentin shuddered, and sinful pride made him feel it was through his words alone. 

“Tell me,” Quentin commanded, his free hand settling in Eliot’s hair, his fist closing and making it pull at Eliot’s scalp. “Tell me again how you regard me.”

“You are my beloved,” Eliot said, all sense of poetry leaving him. Quentin’s hand picked up its pace. Eliot grazed his lips over the shell of his ear. “I am in love with you.”

Quentin moaned. 

“Say it again.”

Eliot shivered from the firmness of his voice, heat radiating down to his toes. 

“My love, I love you.”

The pace of Quentin’s hand became erratic, and Eliot reached between them to cover it with one of his own. He rearranged their legs so that Quentin was between his, and regulated their pace to quick, firm strokes. In this position, Eliot could feel the press of him, the grip of their hands and the spread of his legs, mimicking the way Quentin could have him, make love to him— someday—

Eliot wrapped his legs around him and spoke his words of love once more unto the skin of Quentin’s throat. Quentin braced himself then and quickened his strokes, a man on a mission. Eliot’s hand fell away, gripping his lover’s shoulder as the pleasure built to its peak. 

“Come for me,” Quentin said, lips against his lips. “Look at me. I want to see it, my love _._ ”

Eliot had said the words hundreds of times to Quentin— thousands perhaps– since their first coupling. But the simple endearment falling from Quentin’s lips…

When another twist of his hand, Eliot came, his breath rushing from him in a long sigh as he spent himself over Quentin’s fingers. Quentin stroked him until he was too sensitive to take more. Only then did he brace his forearms on each side of Eliot’s head and drive his hips into the mess around Eliot’s softening cock, drawing blissed-out _whines_ from Eliot’s mouth each time his hard cock slid back to the area between his legs. 

“This way,” Eliot said. He hardly recognized the depth and grit of his own voice. “Use my thighs–”

Quentin moaned at the mere suggestion of it, and in a few frenzied moments they had Eliot’s trousers removed completely. Quentin found the oil and Eliot hissed at the coolness but moaned at its meaning– how it eased the way for his lover to have him, to _use_ him. Once satisfied, Quentin drew Eliot’s legs together, his feet and calves hanging over his shoulder as he pressed between his thighs. 

Eliot was not as young a man as he once was, but even so he could feel a fresh beat of arousal at his softening cock from the mere look on his lover’s face as he fucked the tight cleft of Eliot’s thighs. Eliot dutifully held his thighs together, Quentin’s hair sticking to his forehead from the exertion of his most holy work. His breath was quick and ragged but he watched, eyes open, drinking in every moan that fell from Eliot’s lips when he pressed, just right, against the area where Quentin could enter him— another day, another time. The mere possibility of it set Eliot’s mind aflame. 

It was dreadfully intimate, and as Quentin drew a hand down his thigh Eliot realized– with a pang at his chest– it had been years since he had allowed a man to have him in this way. 

When Quentin came it was as if he had to chase it, jerking wildly against his thighs as if he could bottom out, find the end, and was only incensed more when he didn’t. Eliot stroked his hair and offered his mouth for kisses, practically bent in half, wanting Quentin to wring every bit of pleasure he could from his body. 

Quentin fell between his legs, panting and shaking as he came down from his peak. Eliot hushed him and rubbed his back, his own body thrumming with the victory of pleasing his lover. Her chest tightened. Not just any lover— his Quentin. 

Quentin was shaky once he drew himself back, fumbling to stand and wet a cloth to clean himself and between Eliot’s legs. Eliot watched him carefully for each change in his expression. Quentin took care of him and then sat back on his heels, pressing an absentminded kiss to Eliot’s knee. 

“Feeling better now?” Eliot asked, letting a smile slip into his voice. 

Quentin laughed, returning the smile against Eliot’s leg. “Yes. Always with you.”

Eliot swallowed, drawing him closer with greedy fingers. “Come here.”

Quentin did, tucking himself up behind Eliot’s back and winding his arms around him. It was the perfect position for him to press his forehead to the back of Eliot’s neck. Eliot laced their fingers together in front of his belly. More sated than he ever felt possible, they gave into the blissful surrender of sleep. 

When Eliot woke Quentin had drifted from him, lying on his back with an arm thrown over his head, as if he had attempted and failed to block out the late afternoon sunlight now long disappeared for the dusk of early evening. He still wore his shirt and trousers, braces tangled limply at his sides. His chest rose and fell slowly. 

Eliot remember how shallowly Quentin had breathed when he told him of his mother, of her disappointment in him. His heart ached to think of anyone belittling the man he had come to hold most dear– the man he _loved_ – and the thought of Quentin being anything but the artist he was set his teeth on edge. 

Quentin’s eyes opened, meeting his gaze. He rolled over so that they were face to face. 

“Good morning.” He kissed his cheek, lingering only slightly. “Or is it–?”

“Evening actually,” Eliot said, smiling and cuddling close. “A strange conundrum.”

“I am no stranger to odd hours.”

“I’ve noticed,” Eliot said. “A regular nocturnal fox you are.”

Quentin laughed, but a shadow passed over his face as they lapsed into silence. 

“Eliot…”

Eliot held a finger to his lips. 

“Not yet,” he said, whispering. “Wait.”

He rolled over to standing, searching the room for the forgotten white box. He found it halfway underneath the bed, poking out only enough for him to grab it and present it to the Quentin with an exaggerated bow. 

“For you, my handsome suitor. A token.”

Quentin sat on the edge of the bed, taking the box with an indulgent half-smile. He did not protest the gift, and Eliot made note to _shower_ him with them in the near future. He sat down beside him, nearly bouncing from excitement.

It was strange, they had touched and held each other in the most intimate ways devised by God and yet— Quentin looked almost shy now. He was bashful and blushing, like a new bride, as he removed the plain white wrapping paper. Once the lid was lifted he revealed tissue of a deep red, and nestled beneath it was a beautiful cream-colored silk cravat. Eliot had chosen a plainer style to suit Quentin’s quiet elegance, but did not short him on the luxury of it. 

“Oh, Eliot,” Quentin breathed. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

Eliot beamed. “You are most welcome.”

“I have never felt something so fine.” Quentin ran his fingers over the silky material in the box. “You do have impeccable taste.”

Eliot blushed from the praise. He gestured to the box. 

“Come, let me help you try it on.”

“It’s too fine for the shirt I’m wearing–”

“I will have a new shirt made for you as well.”

Quentin laughed but Eliot didn’t miss how the sentiment made his eyes darken. His hand rose as if to untie the knot of his necktie, but Eliot stilled it with his fingers. 

“Allow me.”

Quentin dropped his hand, nodding.

Eliot untied the old navy blue necktie and set it aside. Quentin’s eyes were soft, and he turned so that Eliot could bring the wide strip of fabric over his head and around the front of his neck. A few loops and pulls, and it sat perfectly against his throat with a fashionable tilt to the bow. Eliot adjusted his collar underneath it, fingers brushing over his jaw. 

“Will you wear it?” He asked, trying to control the tremor in his fingers as he tightened the knot, only slightly. “To my last concert on Saturday?”

Quentin’s fingers brushed over his own throat, and over Eliot’s fingers that rested there. Eliot had chosen the softest, purest fabric that had been available for purchase. He looked so _fine_.

“Of course,” Quentin said. He was flushed and hoarse, as if Eliot had drawn the knot too tightly. “I shall, with pride.”

It was still early evening, plenty of time to sit side by side at the piano and make music together. With Eliot’s sworn confession of love still warming the air, Quentin improvised melodies for Eliot to expand upon, creating variation upon variation until the original was barely recognizable. It was play, and Eliot took every opportunity to show off and make Quentin laugh and smile tenfold to how he had been melancholy before. Quentin kissed him whenever he got too flashy, interrupting passagework and barreling octaves with a crash of nonsense notes as Eliot drank him in. 

Eliot laid on the bed as Quentin played him a [ lullaby ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Qg1H0alWNw) he said he composed when he was a mere fifteen year old boy— a gift for an old neighboring family that had just been blessed with a child, he explained. The melody was so gentle, Eliot felt the hot prick of tears behind his eyes. Quentin played the piano the same way he made love, with unrelenting passion and authenticity that gave way to the soft edges of familiarity, as if to say: _Oh, hello, haven’t we met before?_

Had he had the proper training– had he been truly encouraged in his practice– Eliot was sure he would have been his truest rival for the stage. A virtuoso for the ages. And yet… 

This was much more favorable. 

Even with the nap, they were tired. Eliot felt himself come down from the heady emotion and passion of the afternoon notch by notch. Even when Quentin sank to his knees before him and took him into his mouth, it was long and languorous and without hurry. His hands squeezed softly at Eliot’s thighs in time with his ministrations and Eliot let his head fall back, his hands in Quentin’s beautiful hair. 

They slept again, this time through the night with Quentin warm and soft in his arms. 

Eliot daydreamed about it the next evening at dinner, stirring his soup and staring off into the distance, his chin balanced on his hand. If he closed his eyes he could feel the press of Quentin’s mouth to his, the way he had received Eliot’s confession of love so _readily_ – 

“I believe your barley soup is now cream of barley,” Margo said, beckoning for Todd and the footman to come gather their dishes. “Let’s see how we do with the second course, shall we?”

Eliot barely registered her words. “Let’s, yes, darling.”

Margo sighed, tapping her fingers on the table. “So… another week, then we shall be off. Shall I make arrangements for the carriage? I would like to stay in that lovely Inn along the river between here and Zimmern. The wildflowers might be in bloom this time of season…”

Eliot blinked. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I will make the necessary arrangements once I’m sure my professional obligations have been met here.”

Margo pursed her lips. “Ah.”

Eliot didn’t miss the way she clicked her tongue against her teeth. 

“Surely you cannot be so bored that one— or even two— more weeks in Leipzig would be of mortal pain to you,” He said, reaching for the bottle of wine on the table to fill his glass. “What of all the novels you brought with you?”

Margo raised her eyebrows, exhaling slowly through rounded lips. 

“I will not give that remark the dignity of a response,” she said evenly. “However, I will address the first with a query of my own: Surely _you_ cannot think me so ignorant that I would believe it is your professional obligations that keep you here?”

Todd entered with a tray of sausages, followed by the footman with the potatoes. Eliot took the serving utensils in hand and aggressively served himself a portion. 

“I would never think you ignorant, dear _wife_.” 

Margo rolled her eyes. “Oh, please.”

Eliot scowled a little, and they began to eat in silence as Todd and the footman took their leave. An occasional spat between man and wife was nothing to worry about, but this was different. This concerned Eliot’s _lover_ , and whether or not Eliot would place him above Margo’s happiness and comfort. As he took small bites of his dinner, the food turned to paste in his mouth. 

He set his knife and fork down. 

“Margo,” he started, pitching his tone down from the haughty heights it had reached minutes before. “I’m sorry. There was no reason to speak to you as such.”

Margo nodded, the stiff set of her shoulders releasing somewhat. “I am as well. I think I’m a bit restless, and I can’t take it out on Fen. Too sweet.”

“We are plagued with sweet companions,” Eliot mused. “And can only be truly cross with each other.”

Margo blinked, considering. “Well, I can’t argue with that logic.” She reached across the table for the bottle of wine; Eliot intercepted it, refilling her glass for her. “I didn’t ask you how your evening went. Yesterday.”

Eliot shrugged, setting the bottle back in its place. “I didn’t ask you how yours was, either.”

Margo took a sip. “I’m asking now.”

Eliot smiled, feeling warmth in his chest for his dear wife. 

“It was lovely,” he said. “And illuminating. And yours?”

“Quiet.” She returned to her meal, cutting a small slice of meat. “I invited Alice Weber over to play cards, as I hadn’t been able to call on her yet. She was charming company, and stayed for dinner. A bit chatty maybe, but innocent enough.”

“That sounds nice,” Eliot said, thinking back to the windy day almost a month ago now where he had met Quentin’s former betrothed on the street. How funny and anxious he had been then. 

Margo paused, her fork frozen in the air. 

“She is a good friend to Herr Coldwater, I think,” she said slowly, calculating. “As he is to her. It is good to have friends, don’t you think?”

Eliot swallowed, his breath quickening as if preparing for a battle. 

“I can’t leave him yet,” he blurted out, louder than he had intended. “I just can’t. You wish for honesty so there it is. I know you are miserable here and I know I ask too much of you— but I–” he stopped. 

Margo sighed, closing her eyes as if to pray to God for patience. “I know, Eliot, you love him.”

“No,” Eliot said quickly, shaking his head. “Margo I– I do. Yes, I do love him. But it is not as it was before. It’s _more_ , truer.”

Margo took her glass in hand, leaning back against the back of the chair and letting her shoulders drop forward in a very un-ladylike manner. 

“Why don’t you simply ask him to come back to Vienna with you?” Margo asked, looking down into the glass.

Eliot blinked. “Are you mad?”

“Clearly,” Margo said, taking another sip. “I did bind myself to you.”

Eliot shook his head, clenching his fist over the tablecloth. “Quentin can’t afford to live in Vienna.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be dense. He can afford to live with us.”

Eliot paused, feeling at this moment that they were at a crossroads. He reached out, taking the glass from Margo’s hand and setting it on the table. She met his gaze. Her jaw was tense, stalwart and stubborn.

“Love,” he started slowly. “You know I value your happiness.”

“You better.”

“Please, don’t jest just now.” He took her hand, giving it a light squeeze. “I need to know if you are serious.”

“I am serious about your happiness, Eliot, as you are with mine,” she said. “I have never seen you so light, so happy. What would I be if I took this from you?” She sighed again, lacing their fingers together. “If having Quentin in Vienna is what you want– if it will make you happy, then it is what I want as well.”

Eliot exhaled. He raised her hand to his lips. “You are the best of women.”

“It is a burden I bear with pride.” She shook him off and smiled, grabbing her fork and knife to continue eating. “But I am only half of the equation. Quentin still needs to agree.”

Eliot sat back in his chair. 

“He will,” he said simply. “I know he will.”

* * *

The end of May came with a sweeping hand of warm weather and dampness. Eliot played _In Der Nacht_ on his final concert at the Gewandhaus and received raucous applause, inviting Quentin on stage with him to take a bow. With Eliot’s gift tied snug at his throat they stood side by side for all the world as partners in music.

Another week passed, and then two. Still, Eliot stayed. He learned the entirety of Quentin’s _Fantasiestucke_ and they made music together in the dim interior of Quentin’s apartment. It rained nearly every day– hard, warm sheets of it. It ran off the roofs and left the air feeling raw and washed as if it was a cleansing sent from a pagan god of Spring. 

Quentin hardly noticed the weather, however. Through it all, they made love– in copious, excessive amounts. 

One particular evening, Eliot laid flat on Quentin’s thin mattress, his hands exploring everywhere as Quentin rode him, his knees on either side of Eliot’s hips. A sheen of sweat covered them both, the air cold where their bodies were hot with exertion. Quentin knew not the passage of time– only the waves of pleasure that came from his movements and the smooth planes of Eliot’s chest under his palms. They hadn’t spoken since Quentin had sunk down onto him, only the sighs and whimpers falling from their mouths and the slap of skin on skin disrupting the silence. 

Eliot sat up, mouthing at Quentin’s neck, his chest, and reaching down to stroke Quentin’s cock.

“My sweet, my heart, you are radiant,” Eliot whispered against Quentin’s pulse.

Quentin moaned, Eliot’s mouth and hands driving him to insanity in more than one way. He licked a long stripe over Quentin’s nipple, chasing it with the point of his teeth. Quentin sped up his pace in response, throwing his head back. 

Eliot kept talking. 

“I love you like this, my darling.” He twisted his hand, sending a bolt of sensation down to Quentin’s toes. “I dream of this– I dream of you. I dream that I have you.”

“You do have me,” Quentin panted.

Eliot laughed, his smile radiant. 

Quentin rose up onto his knees, eyes locked to Eliot’s as he sunk down slowly this time, drinking in the way Eliot sighed and smiled from the tight press of him around his cock. Pride swelled through Quentin and he blushed down to his naval knowing that it was only he who could bring Eliot this pleasure. Only he had Eliot’s love. 

Curiously, Quentin wondered what they looked like, the picture they made, joined together in ecstasy. 

Eliot would be beautiful cast in marble. 

Quentin came hard a few moments later, Eliot’s right hand a vice on his hips as he held him and stroked him fast and hard, his thick length deliciously filling him as the pressure released in one hot rush.

Afterwards they lay panting, Quentin collapsed over Eliot, the aftershocks of their lovemaking wracking through him. Eliot was still inside of him, the leftover friction of their bodies heating Quentin from the inside out. He rocked himself slightly, enjoying the overstimulation for a moment as Eliot kissed him, parting only when they struggled to breathe. 

Outside the window, Quentin heard people– shopping, talking, and laughing as if this were a normal afternoon. A poet called out in the streets, his voice carrying through the window but his words indecipherable. None knew– none knew of their secret. 

Quentin barely heard Eliot when he spoke. 

“--with me?”

Quentin stirred, opening his eyes. Eliot’s were wide and bright. A high flush painted his cheeks. 

“What did you say?” Quentin asked, his voice husky and broken.

“Come back to Vienna with me,” Eliot whispered. It wasn’t a question this time. With every word their lips brushed.

Quentin threaded his fingers through Eliot’s hair, closing his fist and tugging only slightly, his eyes falling shut. His chest ached and his mind swam.

“El— don’t say it if you don’t mean it, I couldn’t bear it. Not after these weeks—“

Eliot flipped them, pulling out of him slowly and carefully. Quentin gasped through it, biting his lip, shutting his eyes. This couldn’t be real, Eliot couldn’t be asking– 

“Q, look at me.”

He did. 

“I mean it, with all of my heart.” Eliot’s eyes were liquid gold. He reached out to grab Quentin’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “Say you will. Say you will come back with me and be with me in my home. Be my lover.” 

Quentin breathed, trying to clear his head, but he was surrounded by Eliot. The heat of their palms pressed together. His hair, tickling his forehead. His eyes, his scent, his spend running down Quentin’s legs—

He brought their joined hands to his mouth, kissing Eliot’s hand. He took a breath, reaching into his heart for the courage he needed to answer.

“I will, if you will have me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That marks the end of Act 1. We have really enjoyed writing this and cannot wait to share the rest of this story. Thank you again for all the lovely comments and encouragement! We would love to hear what you think, or where you think this story is going as we move on to Act 2! 
> 
> Drop us a comment here or a message on tumblr, and remember to stay sublime ;)


	7. Intermezzo 1: Todd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before indulging in Act 2 of our story, let us take a pause to look back before Eliot and Margo Waugh were joined together in Holy Matrimony. Told from the point of view of our favorite butler, Todd, this is the story of their "romance."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello fellow romantics! We are posting a double chapter today to celebrate starting Act 2. First, we will have an interlude of sorts that flashes back, and then we will rejoin Quentin in the present for the first chapter of Act 2. Thank you again for all the amazing support and comments, we are loving writing this and can't wait to share more!

_ “You will carry your own weight, work with me, and share my joys and sorrows. _ ” 

— from a letter from Robert Schumann to Clara Wieck, while they prepared for their wedding.

_ Vienna, Austria _ _  
_ _ March, 1833 _

The sounds of gay laughter and the tinkling of piano chords leaked out into the hall as Todd made his way to his employer’s room with some freshly pressed shirts. It would seem Herr Waugh and Lady Margo Hanson had stolen away from yet another court party in favor of the composer’s private apartments in the palace. They had long perfected the practice of giving the lady’s chaperones the slip in favor of sitting together, sharing gossip and sipping wine elbow to elbow at Herr Waugh’s piano. An outsider would assume them lovers, but Todd knew better, as did Lady Margo. Whether Herr Waugh knew better was less certain. Eliot Waugh would only be able to offer a certain kind of love to any woman, but what he had to give, he poured out to “his Bambi.” They were as inseparable as society would allow. 

Todd stepped quietly into the sitting room, meaning to offer to fetch another bottle of wine, or some light supper from the kitchens. They made a tender pair, the lady resting her head on Herr Waugh’s shoulder as he played for her and murmured conversation to draw her smiles. Todd opened his mouth to speak when Herr Waugh’s last words drifted to his ears. 

“...marry me.” 

Lady Margo sat bolt upright, and Todd turned on his heel and practically ran back into the hall. Luckily his escape was covered by the clash of piano keys as Lady Margo’s hand slipped in her shock. He pressed his back to the wall outside the room, arms still full of shirts. The conversation continued inside, their voices not so low any longer.

“—Eliot I swear, if you were to make such a sacred thing into...into some kind of  _ jest— _ “

“I do not jest, Bambi, I swear it to you. I’ve spent some time thinking on it and I am as serious as the grave.” 

Todd held his breath, aware he was listening in on a moment that could change the course of all their lives. He managed to peek into the slit allowed by the hinges on the open door to see what transpired in the small parlor. Herr Waugh still sat beside Lady Hanson, one of her delicate hands clasped between two of his own. His expression was one of great solemnity. The lady’s was of pure, fearful hope.

“Margo,” Herr Waugh pleaded. “Be my wife. Let us be partners in all things. We can make our own house, and close our doors to the judgemental world.” 

“I—I won’t pretend I never imagined,” Lady Margo confessed, “But to hear the offer from your lips—Eliot, how would we live? The emperor’s allowance is generous, but it is hardly enough to support a household, and my dowry is a pittance after all my father’s debts—” 

“I have been engaged for an Imperial tour in the fall,” Herr Waugh revealed, “All the crowns of Europe. I will have the income to provide for you as you deserve. More than. A man needs not title nor heritage to make his way in the world now. And when we return in the spring, you would have your pick of Vienna’s apartments. A townhouse, even.”

“Our own house.” Margo repeated, eyes lighting with wonder. “No servants but the most trusted.” 

“Yes,” Herr Waugh smiles. “Darling, we could live truthfully.” 

“Free to follow our private desires?” Lady Margo asked, raising one eyebrow, though a smile blossomed across her face. 

“Then return home to each other,” Herr Waugh promised, “We shall draft our own vows of fidelity, as it suits our natures.”

“...and children?” Lady Margo asked uncertainly, “They will be expected. And besides that...I want them, Eliot.” 

Herr Waugh kissed her hands. 

“Then we shall have them,” he vowed. “Anything for your happiness. It will not be without its challenges, but—”

“All of it on our own terms.” 

“Yes.”

Herr Waugh rose from the bench and sank down to one knee before the lady. 

“You must know I love you,” he continued. “It is not the same love as other men’s, but I offer it to you regardless. A lifetime’s worth. Will you accept me?” 

Lady Margo beamed, and her eyes shone with happy tears. 

“I will,” she declared, looking more like an empress than an earl’s youngest daughter. “Eliot, let us form a confederacy against this cold world. Let us be man and wife, and damn the consequences.” 

“Oh, Margo.” Herr Waugh pressed Lady Margo’s hand to his cheek. When he spoke his voice was rough with tears of his own. “My dearest friend. My  _ goddess _ . Today you have made me the happiest of men.” 

The lady laughed, a joyful sound, and Todd looked away when Herr Waugh rose to boldly kiss her on the mouth. He was a few steps down the hall when he heard a giggle and half scolding “Eliot, you  _ cad!”  _ followed by Herr Waugh’s deeper laugh. 

Todd continued on his path to the dressing room. His next destination would be the kitchens, in search of a bottle of champagne. 

Tonight would be a night for toasts, and for making plans. 

  
  


* * *

Todd walked briskly toward downtown. In his pocket he carried three letters, to be delivered only by his hand. The first was from the Lady Margaret Hanson to her most gossip prone friend, sharing—in strictest confidence of course—that she had fallen madly in love with a court musician, and included several salacious details of their meetings thus far. The damage to her reputation should a whisper of the affair reach the delicate ears of the upper crust would be severe.

The second was a letter from Herr Waugh to the Lady Hanson, expressing in indecent detail how ardently he shared her affections. This was not to be delivered to the Lady, but instead to the second footman of the earl’s estate, who had a jealous eye for the butler’s position and would be certain to share with the Earl any information which might convince him of his loyalty. 

The third note was for the concierge of the Imperial theater. Herr Waugh has politely requested that a seat be reserved for his dear friend the Lady Margaret Hanson. Somewhere visible please, and would all the staff please be informed that the lady is to be escorted back to his dressing room after the performance? Herr Waugh expresses his gratitude for their aid and discretion in this matter.

“The trick,” Lady Margo had explained as she and Herr Waugh had drafted the letters, her trusted lady’s maid sitting nearby as chaperone, “Will be to concoct a scandal so delicious and tantalizing that no one catches the  _ real _ scandal.” 

“You mean that I’m dandier than a lovebird in June,” Herr Waugh guessed, laughing.

“Indeed. By the time we are through, the entire town will believe I have given you my virtue and then some, and my father will be begging us to marry. No one will be looking too closely at which clubs you frequent, or the fact that my virtue has been long since dispensed with. Once we are married, we will simply be too interesting and too fashionable to remain barred from civilized invitation lists.”

“My darling, you’re a genius,” Herr Waugh declared. “Todd, are you keeping up with this?” 

“I believe so, sir.” 

“Excellent.” Herr Waugh rose and clapped him on the shoulder. “You have a very important role to play, my friend. There is no one else I trust.” 

So there Todd was, cast in the role of messenger, and an incompetent one at that. Delivering a note to the wrong person, how  _ embarrassing. _ Still, without Eliot Waugh Todd would be a bottom of the ladder groom working for a spoiled Russian, and now he was the sole valet to the emperor’s favored composer. Loyalty repays loyalty, and all that.

Having reached his destination, Todd rang the front bell, bowing politely when a footman opened the door. 

“Good afternoon, I have a letter for Fraulein Weiss, from the Lady Margaret Hanson. If you wouldn’t mind delivering it right away, the Lady was most eager for her friend’s advice on a delicate matter…”  
  


* * *

Todd stepped out of what had previously been Herr Waugh’s spare bedroom, and now served as the master’s dressing room while the new Lady Waugh dressed with the help of her maid in the main bedroom. Herr Waugh was currently inside with a tumbler of whiskey and as firm an order as Todd had the power to give that he should drink it. It had been a day of great joy and ceremony, every moment as picture perfect as the newlyweds had planned it at the start of the season. Now that the sun had set however, there were some...wedding night jitters.

Todd was met with Lady Margo’s maid coming down the short hall as he closed the door. Fraulein Wusthof already held Lady Margo’s wedding dress in her arms, the yards of pink rosette dotted skirts nearly overwhelming her petite figure. The mauve and cream had been lovely against Lady Margo’s warm complexion. Todd was far from a poetic man, but even he could admit that she and Herr Waugh had been a vision of spring romance as they exchanged vows that morning. 

“Fraulein Wusthof,” Todd greeted her, offering a polite bow, “A pleasure as always.” 

“Herr Todd, lovely to see you again,” Fraulein Wusthof replied with her customary smile, “Or do you prefer to go by Eliot? I noticed Herr Waugh does not call you by your Christian name, as Lady Margo prefers to do.” 

He smiled weakly. “Just ‘Todd’ is fine, thank you.” 

“As you like,” she said, agreeable as always, “And you must feel welcome to call me Fen. I imagine we’ll be seeing quite a lot of each other from now on.”

“I imagine so. Do you need a hand with that?” Todd asked, gesturing to the volume of gown that Fen was very carefully not allowing to touch the floor. 

“Oh, no,” she demurred, “It’s no trouble. You’re kind to offer though. How is Herr Waugh? It’s been quite an exciting day for us all with the ceremony and the luncheon and all the gifts...” 

“Quite well,” Todd replied, “Taking a short lie down. I thought to take our time dressing since I assumed the lady’s gown would be a bit involved.” 

Fen laughed. “We all thought. Lady Waugh practically ripped it off herself before I could even lend a hand. She was impatient to be out of her stays after the long day.”

“Wouldn’t we all be,” Todd agreed. “Is she waiting, then? I’ll speed things along.” 

“I’m still working on the pins in her hair,” Fen promised, “But perhaps a quarter hour and she’ll be ready for Herr Waugh.” 

Fen seemed to think she had just accidentally said something a bit salacious, as her cheeks pinked.

“Pardon me, but a lady’s wedding night,” she whispered. “She must be terribly nervous, don’t you think? Even as unusual as this all is.”

Todd cleared his throat hurriedly to cover the sound of Herr Waugh dry heaving behind the door of his dressing room.

“Indeed she must,” he agreed, “If you’ll excuse me, Fen, I’ll need to get Herr Waugh dressed.” 

Todd slipped into the dressing room, not missing the look of concern on Fen’s face, but Herr Waugh’s readiness for his wedding night was Todd’s duty, not hers. And what a duty it was. Todd’s employer was currently curled on the floor still in his wedding suit—which made Todd shudder, that gray wool was terribly  _ expensive— _ cradling a wastebasket to his chest with one arm and his glass of undrunk whiskey with the other.  __

“Call the priest back,” he ordered, pale as a sheet, “I cannot possibly go through with this. It is as my mother said, I was meant to be alone.” 

Well. Todd had certainly encountered Herr Waugh in more dire states of mind than this. 

“Sir, I can’t say your lady wife will consent to that idea,” he said. “Nor the priest. You did hold a catholic ceremony, after all.”

“My  _ wife—“  _ Herr Waugh held the back of his hand to his brow as his eyes fluttered. “Todd. I think I may faint.”

They waited several seconds in silence. At last Herr Waugh dropped his hand. His wedding ring glinted gold against the cheerful yellow of his striped waistcoat. 

“Alright,” he admitted, “I’m not going to faint.” 

“I had hoped not, sir. Now up you get,” Todd coaxed him, helping his employer to his feet. “I thought we agreed you’d be in better spirits after a drink?” 

Herr Waugh sipped his whiskey obediently, but evidently the burn as he swallowed only summoned more of his anxieties.

“I am going to shame myself,” he groaned, leaning against the armoire. “I promised her children, a-and even if I can grant her wish it will not be the union that she deserves and she will realize that she could do far better than a false husband and she will  _ leave  _ me, Todd—she will leave and with her all my hope and joy in this world—“

“Herr Waugh—“

“—I have  _ trapped  _ her in this charade, and she my dearest friend—how could I be so selfish— _ “ _

“Sir.” Todd set his hands on Herr Waugh’s shoulders and gave him a slight shake. It was an odd gesture, given the difference in their height and the careful barriers they’d cultivated despite being the same age and born into the same social class. However, the breach in decorum served its purpose, shocking Herr Waugh out of his fugue as his whiskey sloshed in its glass.

“Forgive my familiarity sir,” Todd said, removing his hands, “I realize this is a delicate issue. But please do remember who you married today. I daresay if Lady Margo desired the more typical attentions of a husband she would have procured a more typical spouse.” 

Herr Waugh looked terribly young as he considered Todd’s advice. It was strange to think sometimes that they were both of them only twenty-five.

“Do you think so?” He asked, hands trembling around his glass. 

“I am quite certain,” Todd assured him. “I have never witnessed your lady be coerced into any task she did not wish to take on, great or small.”

Todd’s employer let out a shuddering breath, the tension bleeding out of his frame. Then, still pale, he laughed. 

“You’re right,” he said, “Of course you’re right.” 

Herr Waugh rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. 

“Lady Margaret Waugh,” he breathed, looking half exhilarated and half terrified, “What a stunning notion.”

“Indeed it is, sir.”

“She was so beautiful on the altar.” Herr Waugh’s expression turned dreamlike, “They will speak of it for years, how well we looked together as man and wife. And all of it born of my Margo’s wicked imagination.” 

“As I recall, it was you who proposed, sir.” 

Herr Waugh looked at him, raising his eyebrows. “I suppose I did, didn’t I?” he said. “As they say, Todd, even a wrong clock is right twice a day. Binding myself to Lady Margo Hanson was my second moment of genius.” 

“And the first, sir?” Todd couldn’t help but ask. Herr Waugh winked. 

“Why, stealing you away from Mikhail’s dreadful service, of course.” 

“That’s very kind of you, sir. Might we get you out of that suit now?” 

Finally, Herr Waugh submitted to being dressed for bed. Todd did his best to brush out the scuffs from his suit as he tied his silk robe over his nightshirt. 

“Thank you Todd. You have been...a true friend,” Herr Waugh said, “Now if you’ll excuse me, my wife awaits me in the marriage bed.”

“Best wishes, sir.” 

Todd remained awake for a few hours that night, spending some time in the servant’s hall polishing his shoes on the off chance he might be needed. The sound of the bell at half past eleven validated his choice. Brushing the dust from his uniform and blinking the sleep from his eyes, Todd knocked on the door to the master bedroom before stepping inside. Husband and wife were in bed together under the velvet covers, sat up against the wealth of down pillows that Herr Waugh favored. Herr Waugh himself was undressed and in good enough spirits as far as Todd could tell, though his eyes were a bit red rimmed as he pressed a kiss to his wife’s cheek. Lady Margo laughed at something Herr Waugh had whispered to her before offering Todd a smile. She opened her mouth to speak but her husband interjected. 

“Eyes front, Todd.” 

Herr Waugh’s sharp tone registered just as Todd realized the lady was only in her chemise under the bedcovers. He turned away, feeling his cheeks heat. Lady Margo was certainly a well suited match to Herr Waugh’s bohemian tendencies.

“Ah, forgive me, my lady, I didn’t realize—” 

Lady Margo laughed. “Don’t worry yourself, Todd. I do have my husband here to defend my honor, if need be.” 

“Very good, my lady,” Todd said, keeping his eyes firmly in front. From this vantage point he could see the half empty bottle of claret on the settee, and Herr Waugh’s robe discarded at the end of the bed. “How can I be of service?”

“I have been made to understand that these apartments come with a serviceable bathtub,” Lady Margo said. Todd nodded. 

“Indeed, my lady. Shall I call for some hot water?” 

“That would be lovely, thank you.” Lady Margo pulled Herr Waugh’s fingers to her lips, and he offered her a tremulous smile. 

“Right away, my lady,” Todd said, knowing he had just witnessed something very intimate.

Ringing a few bells, Todd supervised the filling of the tub in Herr Waugh’s private bathing chamber. He hoped if baths were a favored habit of Lady Margo that they considered an apartment with plumbing once they moved out of the palace. They said one could get hot water piped right into a house now in some of the newer Vienna hotels. In the meantime it meant borrowing a few tired footmen to carry the steaming water up from the kitchens. Once the tub was full Todd knocked on the door to the bedroom once more. 

“At your pleasure, sir, my lady,” he said. 

“Thank you, Todd,” came the muffled reply through the door. There was some shuffling, and as he turned to leave Todd overheard one last snippet of conversation.

“—the intimacy was startling...and wonderful. It’s only that I—“

“Do you think I don’t know darling? We’ve done our duty to the empire and we shan’t dwell on it again until the need arises.”

A soft laugh, and then—

“...you must think me quite silly, to be left in such a fragile state after so simple an act.” 

“Not another disparaging word against my spouse, Herr Waugh, or I’ll box your ears. Now come along, and bring that claret. I think you’re going to find this a most delightful ritual, and an intimacy more to your liking.” 

Todd smiled as he made his way back to the servant’s hall, a hot cup of tea and a good night’s rest ahead of him. It seemed Herr Waugh was in capable hands.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Act 2: Vienna

_ “He doesn’t have to say anything— I like him so well when he just meditates, and I want to eavesdrop on every one of his thoughts.”  _

— Clara Wieck when writing to a friend about her lover, Robert Schumann

_ Leipzig, Germany  
1836 _

By Tuesday, Quentin found a suitable tenant to take over his lease and by Thursday his meager possessions were packed away in his trunk. Eliot supervised everything down to the final detail, assuring and reassuring him that he had everything well-taken care of. Still, Quentin worried. He plied him with questions and scenarios, each more maudlin than the last.

“Where will I stay in Vienna?” Quentin said while packing one evening, Eliot sprawled out on his stomach on the bed like an Egyptian pharaoh. “I can’t afford an apartment there with the little I have made from my compositions—“

“Obviously, you shall stay in my townhouse with Margo and I.” He took a large bite of the ruby red apple he held. “You needn’t worry over something as vulgar as finances, my love.”

Money wasn’t Quentin’s only concern.

“You must be concerned for your reputation. How will you explain my presence in your house?” Quentin asked in the cafe the next day, picking at a rather deflated looking sweet roll. 

“Why, you are my compositional protege, come to learn at the feet of my mastery, of course,” Eliot said while spooning sugar into his tea. “There are many who have done it before with other teachers.”

“But we are so alike in age,” Quentin countered. 

Eliot grinned rakishly. “Have you suddenly become wildly successful and beloved of the public overnight?”

Quentin shook his head, ignoring the joke. “Won’t there be talk? Scandal? Your reputation in Vienna must be important to you.”

Eliot broke his gaze, shaking open a newspaper. 

“Margo takes care of all of that, my young pupil.”

The mention of Eliot’s wife with the striking eyes and sharp tongue gave Quentin pause, and he was silent for a few hours until they returned to his flat. Eliot sat at the piano, adding to his latest composition– a gift for the Emperor upon Eliot’s return to Vienna. Something to make the court forget than Eliot had shirked his duties for nearly two months longer than had been previously planned. 

Quentin tried to lose himself in a book and the repetitiveness of Eliot’s note-checking, but his mind lacked focus. After a few more fidgety moments, Eliot set his pen down. 

“Quentin, I can hear your thoughts from across the room.”

Quentin frowned, marking his place in the book before setting it on the night table. Eliot turned, smiling, all play. 

“Pray, share with me.”

Quentin chewed his bottom lip, working his teeth over the flesh until he felt the courage to sit forward, resting his feet on the ground so that he and Eliot were face to face. 

“Won’t Lady Margo mind terribly if I trespass in her home?”

Eliot’s true smile disappeared, replaced with a smirk coupled with flared nostrils. The look said:  _ Silly Quentin _ ,  _ I know the truth and the way of things, and that’s that. _

“Margo is exceedingly fond of you and our affair. She’s thrilled that you’re coming with us.”

“As long as you’re sure—“

“As sure as the day is long.” 

Quentin accepted the reassurance, putting it out of his mind to the best of his ability.

By mid-morning the next day, he stood outside of a fine carriage packed to the gills with Eliot and Margo’s numerous pieces of luggage and his own modest trunk, giving one last embrace to Alice. 

“Thank you for coming,” he said, knowing that they were drawing the gaze of passersby, but uncaring. 

“Of course, you need someone to see you off before a journey such as this,” she said against his shoulder. “Take care of yourself, and  _ write.” _

Quentin felt Eliot’s eyes on him as his pressed a chaste kiss to Alice’s cheek, his heart already missing his old friend. His move back to Leipzig had been in part to be close to her again, however dim the light of their romantic past was now. She was a connection to a past that was quickly fading in his memory and sights. 

They parted, and Alice nodded politely to Eliot and Margo. 

“Take care of him, Herr Waugh, or I shall have to fetch him from Vienna myself.”

Quentin suppressed a laugh as Eliot’s eyebrows shot up.

Before long, it was time for Alice to go home and for them to depart, packed into the carriage together and sent spinning off to Vienna. 

It was unseasonably warm, the heat bringing with it a sticky humidity that infected their clothes and hair and general dispositions. Quentin’s first meeting with Lady Margo had been charming and successful, but he sincerely doubted his ability to be witty and engaging to a woman of status and class for very long. 

“Todd sent word to the home staff,” Eliot said around the their third hour of travel. “I do hope they aired out the place before this heat.”

“I should hope so for their sakes, if they wish to keep their heads,” Lady Margo said. She grinned playfully, catching Quentin’s eye. “I had them fix up the north room for you. It has a grand view of the city.”

Eliot groaned, slouching in his seat. “That bed is far too soft for me.”

Margo snapped her fan shut, tapping Eliot on the leg with it before slipping it into her small bag under the seat. 

“Not everyone wishes to sleep on a plank of wood like you, my darling.”’

Quentin unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Thank you, my lady. That sounds lovely. I do appreciate your hospitality.”

She winked at him. “Eliot told me you were sweet.”

“Isn’t he just?” Eliot agreed.

Quentin blushed under the full weight of their gaze, taking that moment to look out the window. The German countryside passed them by, dotted with farms and rural towns. 

Eliot and Lady Margo bantered easily as any young couple who had found true happiness with each other, joking and laughing as if they were ignorant of how devastatingly beautiful they were. Or perhaps they were fully aware, and knew just how to create the best picture. 

A few hours later, after a particularly rough section of road, Lady Margo folded her hands in her lap and professed that she would like to take a nap. Eliot trailed a booted toe along Quentin’s pant leg as her eyes slipped closed. 

“Careful, Q,” Eliot whispered. “She sleeps like a cat: one eye open.”

Quentin laughed softly at that. More than any show they put on for the public, it was obvious that Eliot was so endearingly  _ fond _ of his wife. Quentin found himself relaxing as they put more miles between them and Leipzig. 

Quentin had never taken such a long journey. At first Eliot’s carriage had seemed luxurious and comfortable, what with its wide seats and red velvet cushions, but even the most sumptuous carriage became tiresome after a while. After the first five hours his bottom lost all feeling. After eight, his neck felt horribly tight and aching. He was relieved when they pulled into an inn for the night, finally exiting the cramped interior to stretch their legs. Todd arranged stabling for their exhausted horses while they tucked into some simple food and drink before retiring.

Eliot snuck into Quentin’s room after sundown, whispering all the sweet words he had kept to himself while among greater society and putting his hands all over Quentin. Stripping him bare and straddling his hips, Eliot kneaded at the tired and sore spots on Quentin’s neck and back, drawing quiet moans and sighs from his mouth. His hands were strong and skilled, and Quentin found himself aroused to the point of incoherence by the time Eliot flipped him over and took them both in hand. 

He didn’t so much mind the thought of another eight hours in the carriage after that. 

“I spy with my little eye…” Lady Margo began one afternoon. Blessedly, some of the heat had lifted, leaving them in more chipper spirits. “Something that begins with Q.”

“Why, it must be Quentin,” Eliot said quickly, giving Quentin a glimpse of how competitive he could be, even with a silly carriage game. 

Margo looked offended. “Do you really think me so obvious?” 

Eliot blew out a stream of air, examining every nook and cranny of the carriage. “Q, Q, Q… such a difficult letter…”

Eliot made several more guesses: quick (as in the speed of the carriage), quills (from the birds that fluttered by), quiver (from the hunter they saw deep in the woods), and even...

“Quahog? Where would there be a quahog in Germany?” Margo teased, delighted at her cleverness. 

Eliot threw up his hands. “I call foul play. You set us up.”

“Now, now,” Margo cooed sarcastically. “Don’t speak for poor Quentin— you haven’t even let him guess yet.”

Eliot turned to him, and Quentin did give it some thought, examining the wilderness outside the small window. 

“Perhaps the lady saw… a quail?”

Eliot’s eyes widened and he snapped his gaze to Lady Margo to see her answer. Smiling, she nodded, nudging Eliot’s shoulder. 

“Now you must cede that Quentin is the smartest and brightest among us,” she said in a sing song voice. “We will require verbal confirmation.”

Eliot did look grumpy, like a small child denied an automatic win. However, his smile soon turned saccharine. 

“That’s no chore.” He reached out, laying a hand on Quentin’s knee, pressing his finger pads into the muscle. “You already know my feelings for you, don’t you my love?”

Lady Margo accused Eliot of shirking the requirements of the game, but Quentin didn’t complain. Having Eliot look at him in that way was reward enough. 

That evening Eliot slept in the narrow inn bed beside him, having snuck in well after midnight. Quentin, however, was wide awake, attempting to finish his letter to Julia.  _ Attempt  _ was the key word here. He sat cross-legged on the bed with his paper resting on a thick book the innkeeper had been using as a doorstop. He had started and abandoned the letter so many times he feared that he would run out of plain paper and have to use blank manuscript.

_ You may be shocked to learn that I am traveling to Vienna, where I will study composition with Eliot Waugh. _

The words looked flat and wrong on the page. Eliot was a wonderful composer, to be sure, but Quentin longed to tell his best friend the truth. He longed for the easy way he and Julia once regarded each other, before her wretched father had seen fit to separate them. 

_ I hope your tour takes you to Vienna, so that we might see each other again. I have more music for you, an entire suite built around Aufschwung, which you complimented so kindly in your last letter. You know I always love to hear you play.  _

In truth, Quentin regretted to his core his silly youthful decision to tell Julia his immature romantic feelings. They had been born more from infatuation than true romantic affection, and his confession had only served to create awkwardness between them. Her father held him in suspicion after, and decided to  _ hate  _ his music and bar his daughter from performing it on any recital. A younger, more idealistic Julia had promised to play his music at every concert and on every tour. But now...

_ Give my best to your father. I only wish for your continued success.  _

He knew Julia’s tour was her longest and most prestigious yet. All the courts of Europe and as many towns and estates in between as her father could squeeze into the schedule. Julia had been so excited, finally on a serious tour as an adult virtuoso. However, not two months into the tour, Quentin had seen a newspaper illustration of Julia, sitting at the piano Buckingham House in England, her hair still in ringlets. Her father would do anything he could to pass her off as the child prodigy she once was. She would be married and with child, and he still insisting she perform in pigtails. 

“You’re  _ plagued  _ with correspondence.”

Quentin looked away from the letter. Eliot laid with his arm under his head, reaching up to trail his other hand down Quentin’s back. His eyes were warm and soft in the candlelight. 

Quentin caught his hand, pressing a kiss to the palm. 

“This is the same letter as last night, I’m afraid. I’m struggling to finish it.”

Eliot sat up. “May I?”

Quentin shrugged, handing him the letter. Eliot read it quickly, his eyes darting over the page. 

“I thought you said Fraulein Wicker was your childhood friend.”

“She is,” Quentin insisted, confused. “Why do say that?”

Eliot sat up fully, giving the letter another read before answering. 

“Only that it is so stiff, like you are writing your governess,” he teased. “You don’t joke with her as I’ve seen you do with Alice. If I didn’t know you so well I would think you not a tender composer of letters, but as I have been on the receiving end of your prose I know that to be untrue.”

Quentin sighed, taking the letter back and folding it, the paper already creased from when he had started the letter the evening before. 

“I’m afraid we did not part on good terms,” he said, setting the letter on the side table. “We fought… it wasn’t my finest moment.”

Eliot brushed a lock of Quentin’s hair away from his face. His hands were soft. “How so?”

Quentin laughed bitterly. “I’m afraid I accused her of selling her soul, if I remember the words correctly.”

“To who? Lucifer? Or her father?”

“Yes to the second, and to the public. I said she was the embodiment of empty virtuosity, a novelty for nobles to coo over until she no longer passed as a child prodigy. That she would never make music that was lasting.”

Eliot winced, raising his eyebrows. “I can’t imagine you meant it.”

Quentin shook his head. “No, not a word. It was only my jealousy and bitterness, in the end. Jealous of her career and success, when we both received the same training. Even before the… mess with my finger, she was always going to be better.”

Eliot scooted closer, nosing over Quentin’s neck and rubbing one of his strong hands over his back. 

“I don’t like hearing you talk about yourself this way,” he whispered, his voice the embodiment of tenderness. “You know how I feel for you. How I feel about your music.”

“I do know. These are old feelings.” He leaned into Eliot’s touch. “Old wounds. I’m only just talking.”

Eliot drew him back into his arms, leaning them back until Quentin rested against his chest. Ever since the first time they made love and he had breathlessly looked up at Eliot above him, covering him, and expressed how it pleased him, Eliot had endeavored to make him feel safe while they were together. Quentin relaxed into his arms. 

“You are good to try to resolve this,” Eliot said quietly. “It will be hard to mend, but you will be better for it.”

“I suppose…”

When Eliot had no more advice for him, he distracted him instead, showering him in kisses and sweet touches that served well to make him forget the half-finished letter to his estranged friend. Tomorrow, would finish it tomorrow and mail it in Vienna.

The days blurred together, an endless foray of jostling and knocked teeth inside the carriage and the generic interiors of the Inns where they found respite. The five day journey stretched into seven when a wheel on their carriage snapped in the middle of a muddy country road. 

Sweat glistened along the column of Eliot’s throat where he had loosened and tossed his deep blue necktie into the interior of the carriage as he held the wheel steady for Todd and the driver to tighten it. Quentin had the job of keeping the carriage level. He shook a little, his muscles tired and cramped from the journey.

“Steady, gentlemen,” Margo said from her small patch of dry dirt. “Would you like me to show you how it’s properly done?”

“We’re well aware of your talents Margo, no need to boast,” Eliot calls. His hands slipped on the wheel. “Goddammit—“

Quentin glanced over the wheel nervously. “Um, Eliot, do you think that you should be risking your hands for this—“ 

“Fret not, my hands are heartier than that. A mere splinter.” Eliot blew a tendril of hair out of his eyes, and Quentin knew it was an inappropriate time but he looked positively dashing in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves. “Todd, if you would please hurry, Herr Coldwater worries for my health.”

Quentin laughed in spite of himself, shaking his head. 

When they finally set the wheel and finished the two mile journey to the next town, they stopped at the first Inn that they could locate. They wished Margo good night and Eliot, looking exhausted from the days events, followed behind Quentin to his room without keeping up the usual charade. 

“Eliot, did anyone see you?” Quentin said when the door shut behind them. “The innkeeper–”

“Was as drunk as I would like to be.” Eliot finished for him, shedding his own waistcoat and setting to work on Quentin’s. “Please don’t worry, my love, the sun has set.”

Eliot’s eyes sparkled with mischief as always, but there was something else in his expression. A frown at the corners of his mouth, a tremble in his hands as he undressed him.  _ Let me _ , it said,  _ Don’t turn me away _ . 

They fell into bed, Eliot’s arms circling around him and pulling him against his front. Eliot nosed at the back of his neck, settling with his forehead against his skin. Within a few minutes, his breath had the tell-tale slowness of sleep. Despite his tired and aching body, sleep alluded Quentin. He realized that it was the first time he and Eliot had simply  _ slept _ together in each other’s company. 

Worrying over that kept him up half the night, and he found himself dozing for most of the trip the next day, no matter how rough the road was beneath the newly outfitted carriage wheels. Eliot and he had woken with the sun, and had sleepily helped each other dress in the bright morning light. With the memory of Eliot’s hands soft on him and the rhythmic rocking of the carriage, he slept.

He heard snatches of conversation from Margo and Eliot interwoven with dreams of the towering spires of Vienna– Eliot had described them to him in whispers one evening several weeks before, right after Quentin had agreed to accompany him back to his home. It had been a cool night in Leipzig, but their bodies had been warm underneath the covers. 

“Beauty such as you have never seen,” Eliot had said, a hand over Quentin’s heart. “A city of music, and art. I can’t wait to show you. I can’t wait to show  _ your genius _ to them.”

Before he knew it, Eliot was shaking him awake. 

“My love, we are here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading! Comments are love and we love hearing what you think :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Act 2 proper! Rest assured, destielpasta and I have this story very thoroughly planned out. We're excited to share the journey to come! Thanks to all for your wonderful comments, each one is a treasure.

Eliot awoke confused. Quentin was warm beside him, but against his skin were not the thin sheets from Quentin’s downtown boardinghouse, or the scratchy blankets from the Inns and hotels of their travels. The sheets were soft and imported, a buttery yellow set that had been a wedding gift from one Margo’s fashionable relatives. The pillows were stuffed full of down feathers. Above him was the charmingly moulded ceiling of his own guest bedroom, the north room that the servants had fixed up especially for Quentin.

He inhaled deeply, smiling. Home. 

Turning, he giggled when he saw how Quentin’s hair had twisted itself into a thatch against his pillow, one arm thrown over his head and his face an angelic mask of sleep. 

Eliot brushed his hair back, pressing a kiss to his forehead. When he drew back, Quentin blinked in his sleep, his eyes fluttering open. He quickly closed them against the light, humming and nuzzling against Eliot’s chest. 

“Well good morning, darling,” Eliot said, encircling an arm around Quentin’s back. 

Quentin mumbled something against him, clearly disgruntled. 

“What was that, my love?”

Quentin lifted his face. “It’s far too early to be waking.”

Eliot laughed, laying his hand casually on Quentin’s hip. “It’s almost seven.”

Quentin groaned grumpily again but Eliot solved the dilemma by seeking out his lips for a kiss. 

Quentin sighed against his mouth, and Eliot kept the kiss tender, without any true heated intention. He tasted as one does in the morning, but Eliot couldn’t find it in him to mind. Quentin was always so eager to be kissed and Eliot  _ very _ quick to supply them. In truth, he still couldn’t believe his fortunes: he had Quentin  _ here _ , in his home. 

Soon Quentin’s kiss tasted of laughter.    
“What is it?” Eliot smiled against his lips, his laughter contagious when heard. 

“Nothing,” he said, his voice quiet as if he were still half-asleep. “I was only thinking that if we were in Leipzig you would have to rise and dress in haste so that you could leave undetected.”

Eliot hummed, his heart strangely tight at the not-so-distant memory. Eliot cherished the hushed nights in the Leipzig townhouse where he and Quentin had fallen in love, but as Eliot sighed and took in the sight of his lover wrapped in the finest linens and awash with sunshine, he knew he would come to cherish a more relaxed time with him in the days to come.

“I propose we do nothing in haste ever again,” Eliot said, cupping his hand over Quentin’s cheek. “We shall languish in bed for as long as our combined consciences allow.”

Quentin made to sit up, a teasing lilt to his mouth. “I suppose I could compose a few lines before breakfast–”

“Oh no you don’t–”

Eliot tugged on his arm and Quentin let out a yelp of laughter, falling back into his arms and accepting Eliot’s kiss. 

Eliot had apartments at court, but he rarely used them.  _ This  _ was his true home. This was the home he had purchased with the earnings from his first major tour, the home he had built with Margo, and the one place on Earth where he found he could live honestly, as much as humanly possible. 

They broke apart and Quentin sat up, stretching and squinting at the sun streaming in through the window. “I don’t recall entering this room last night whatsoever.”

Eliot drew a hand down Quentin’s back, slipping a hand underneath his nightshirt to feel the smooth skin. “I seem to remember carrying you to bed in my arms.”

Quentin whipped around. “Tell me you didn’t.”

Eliot tried to hold his somber expression, but failed as soon as he saw Quentin’s look of complete horror, dissolving into a joyful fit of laughter. 

“Alright, well perhaps I didn’t carry you,” he allowed, sitting up to rest his chin on Quentin’s shoulder. “But you were stumbling from exhaustion, and I did help you to your room…” He pressed a kiss to his shoulder, then his neck. “And I seem to recall helping you undress…”

Quentin sighed when Eliot pushed lush kisses into the stubble under his chin, his other hand reaching round to cup his neck. 

“Help me remember, love?” Eliot whispered. 

Quentin exhaled with a shudder and Eliot felt victory in his bones as he laid him back against the pillows, about to slip his hand underneath his shirt with intention– 

A knock sounded at the door. 

“Good morning, Herr Waugh,” Todd’s voice sounded through the door, brisk and punctual as always. “Breakfast is served, unless you and Herr Coldwater would care for a tray?”

Quentin’s eyes widened to the size of saucers, tensing up immediately under Eliot’s hands. Eliot braced himself on his forearms.

“No need, Todd,” he called. “I’ll be in my room in ten minutes to dress. Have Fen tell Lady Waugh, in case she would care to join us in the morning room.”

“Very good, sir.”

Todd departed with soft footsteps and Quentin let out a quick stream of air. Eliot was surprised it didn’t whistle. 

“How did your butler know you were in my room?” Quentin asked slowly, once deflated.

Eliot shrugged. “I imagine once he did not find me in Margo’s room or my own quarters it was merely a process of elimination. He’s not the brightest fellow but I do believe he can manage that arithmetic.”

“So… that means–” Quentin stuttered, almost head-butting Eliot as he sat up quickly. “He saw us go to your room together– last night– that means he–”

Oh dear. 

“Quentin,” Eliot maneuvered himself in front of Quentin, taking both of his flailing hands between his. “Please don’t fret– I assure you we are safe here.”

Quentin’s brow furrowed. “Safe?”

Eliot nodded, his heart breaking for the fear that had still not dimmed in Quentin’s eyes. 

“I’m sorry, darling, I should have warned you.” He squeezed his hands for good measure. “I keep a loyal and discreet staff, as I do wish to live openly in my own home. If it helps, I have known Todd far longer than he has been my butler. He would  _ never _ do anything to endanger us.”

“I...oh.”

“As you have said, I do care deeply for my reputation here,” Eliot said, “You can trust me not to be reckless, no matter how ardently you move me.” 

Quentin sighed, some of the tension lifting from his shoulders. “I do trust you, Eliot. I suppose I am only  _ surprised _ that there are those that would accept this.”

“You are in Vienna now,” Eliot reminded him, “You may continue to be surprised by the...cosmopolitan views held by some in all walks of life. ...not that such views can be espoused in explicit terms.”

Quentin laughed wryly. “Obviously.”

Eliot frowned, brushing the back of his knuckles over Quentin’s face. 

“It is good to always be wise, Q,” Eliot said, tucking a stray lock of hair behind Quentin’s ear. “But we needn’t keep our secrets so stoutly, at least within these walls. Margo and I trust Todd and Fen with our lives– more importantly with our reputations. Our servants are paid very well for their discretion, in case one has a crisis of conscious.”

Quentin nodded, leaning into Eliot’s touch. “It will certainly take some getting used to.” Then, a small smile. “And here I thought I had the best of circumstances with a very absentminded landlady.”

“I am certainly thankful for that,” Eliot teased. “As our time in Leipzig was so very productive.”

Quentin gave in with a laugh and accepted a kiss. He pulled on Eliot’s shirt, trying to get him to lie back with him, but Eliot resisted. 

“It pains me, love, but we must dress and ready ourselves for the day,” Eliot said. Despite his disappointment at being denied the opportunity to ravish Quentin in the early morning, he was rather excited to be out and about and visible in his city. “Kiss me once and then I must go. Meet me at the breakfast table?”

Quentin kissed him long and deep enough for Eliot to question whether it only counted as one, but he chose not to mention it, for selfish reasons. 

His own quarters were small and modest in comparison to Margo’s lavish bedchambers and even Quentin’s guestroom, but they served him enough as a dressing room and place to sleep when he and Margo deemed it necessary to do so separately. 

(Typically in the warmer months she would banish him for weeks on end, citing that it was just too damn  _ hot _ for a marriage bed.) 

Todd had unpacked while he and Quentin slept the night before, and Eliot ran his fingers over his collection of fine jackets and waistcoats hanging in the wardrobe. The tour of the German states had been a short one compared to others, even with the unexpected extension in Leipzig, but it still felt good to be properly settled again. Todd helped him into a freshly brushed and pressed suit, a lighter set now that summer had seen fit to arrive in earnest. 

Eliot adjusted his cufflinks in front of the full length mirror, back in his own bedroom in his own city and in clothes that did not smell like the interior of a steamer trunk. 

Quentin and Margo were already seated at the breakfast table when he made his entrance, passing around a plate of thickly sliced bread. To his intense relief, they were conversing easily even without his added company. He didn’t know why he had worried, in truth. Margo’s small talk flowed effortlessly, compensating for Quentin’s occasional awkwardness. 

Eliot strolled in, and Margo’s mouth spread to a grin upon seeing him. She tilted her face up to receive his peck on her cheek. 

“Good morning,” he said, squeezing her shoulder and taking his seat at the head of the table.

“Good morning, dear. I was just telling Quentin all the sights he must see while in Vienna,” Margo said, taking her knife and fork in hand. “What are your plans for the day?”

Eliot served himself some bread and meat while Franz poured him coffee. “I thought I would show Quentin around town. Show him the Volksgarten and a few good cafes. To see and let us be seen, you know.”

Margo laughed. “As is right. Well, I think I shall find myself some amusement quite near to home today.”

“You won’t be joining us?” Quentin asked, adding belatedly, “My lady?”

“Indeed not, Herr Coldwater, you can exhale,” Margo said, delicately removing the upper shell of her soft boiled egg, “I have no desire to impose myself on your gentlemanly exploits.” 

Quentin nearly dropped his butter knife in his haste to insist “My lady, I would  _ never _ —that is to say, I hope I haven’t implied in any way—”

Eliot sighed happily. His Quentin was so terribly endearing. Margo shot him a look of fond exasperation before reassuring his lover, patting Quentin’s sleeve in a manner so familiar Eliot half feared his darling might faint dead away.

“Do be at peace sir, I only speak in jest,” Margo promised. “I assure you when I desire to avail myself of my husband’s company I’ll not hide it from you.” 

“As you say, my lady,” Quentin agreed, nearly beet red as Margo reclaimed her hand in order to indulge fully in her eggs. “Eliot, could I trouble you for the butter?”

“Of course, darling.” 

Quentin seemed to grow slightly more at ease following the ingestion of some good brown bread, and Eliot allowed him a bit of peace with his own thoughts as he and Margo enjoyed their usual morning conversation. 

“I imagine now that you are freed from the social desert of Leipzig you have a thrilling variety of calls to make,” Eliot guessed. 

“Vienna society has been at a loss without my presence,” Margo agreed, “I have many a scandal to be caught up on. It will be harder, since we have missed the bulk of the social season and so many families have left for their country homes…”

“My fault, dear,” Eliot ceded. “In case you didn’t know, Quentin, Leipzig was supposed to be a two week jaunt, and now Vienna is all but deserted for the summer– “

Lady Margo continued, raising her voice above Eliot’s. 

“… but who knows which prominent society couple has separated, or which lord embarrassed himself with drink at the last party, or which Earl’s daughter has eloped with a handsome, penniless court musician.” 

Eliot pouted over his coffee.

“We hardly  _ eloped,  _ darling,” he said, pulling Margo’s hand to his lips for a kiss. “Surely your father’s bill for the affair can attest to that.”

“But it was a delicious scandal.” Margo’s eyes gleamed as she sighed in fond recollection. “We were just so hopelessly,  _ amorously _ in love. Propriety didn’t stand a chance against us.” 

“We certainly added to the Earl’s count of gray hair,” Eliot agreed, allowing Todd to refill his coffee cup as he aimed a wink at Quentin. “Will this be the season our torrid affair is finally forgotten?”

“I hope not, but who knows? I’ve been receiving some  _ very _ interesting correspondence from Lady Roth, and an entirely conflicting account from the Countess von Haare regarding one of the Engle daughters,” Margo revealed conspiratorially, drawing curiosity from Eliot and polite confusion from Quentin. “Today I shall find out the truth.” 

“Which Engle daughter?” Eliot inquired. 

“I’m not sure,” Margo replied, “Both letters were deliberately vague, as to tempt me back to society with the details. And thus, I suggest a wager. Which daughter, and what trouble has she wrought?” 

“You want to bet on the details of a family’s ill fortune?” Quentin looked positively scandalized. 

“Indeed Bambi, what a terribly un-Christian idea,” Eliot agreed, before pulling a silver three-Kreuzer from his coin purse, “And I say young Kristina has declared her intention to become a stage actress.”

“Oh you are a cruel man,” Margo said, cackling, “I will be kind, and say Helga the eldest wants to take the veil, and is spoiling her mother’s labors towards a prosperous marriage match.”

“Quentin?” Eliot offered him the opportunity to participate, even though he still half looked as though he was about to give them both a scolding, like a particularly handsome vicar. Quentin scrunched his nose adorably, then deflated with a helpless smile. 

“I haven’t any of the Empire’s currency to wager,” he said wryly, “Nor do I know these poor people. Is there a middle daughter?” 

“Indeed, lovely Beatrice,” Margo supplied helpfully. 

“Well then, Beatrice has just broken her father’s heart and published a novel.”

Margo laughed hard enough to nearly upset her teacup. 

“Oh, Quentin, I knew you had it in you.” 

Eliot felt himself glow with Margo’s good mood, and her easy welcoming of Quentin into one of the most intimate parts of their routine. Feeling hot and reckless he leaned over to whisper in Quentin’s ear, “Never mind about the coin darling. Should you lose the wager, you can simply settle the debt with me through more private means.” 

“Oh?” Quentin’s cheeks were red again, and he glanced nervously at Margo as Eliot rested a bold hand on his knee but managed to reply, “And what if I should win?” 

“Then,  _ mein herz _ …” Eliot kissed his cheek, and tapped him lightly under the chin with his knuckles. “You shall be the proud owner of a three Kreuzer piece.” 

Quentin sputtered, and Eliot joined Margo in a hearty laugh. 

“ _ This  _ is what I have come all the way to Vienna for,” Quentin declared, a smile curling his lips despite his indignance at Eliot’s teasing. Eliot’s mirth settled into something warmer in his belly as he observed the smile blossom across Quentin’s face. The morning sunlight dappled the room, the lace curtains at the high windows protecting their privacy. Quentin looked lovely at eight, Eliot suddenly thought. In the true light of morning, rather than just the secretive predawn when Eliot had always been forced to sneak from the boarding house in Leipzig. 

Not for the first time, Eliot imagined he were a painter, standing at the edge of the room to consider his subjects. All three of them, set against the pale blue wallpaper, with Margo’s sharp smile and Quentin’s bright eyes...what a lovely picture they would make.

“What?” Quentin asked, shy again as Eliot realized he had been staring. Margo raised an eyebrow at him knowingly. 

“It’s nothing,” Eliot assures him, clasping Quentin’s hand under the table. “Just that I am so happy you are here.”

Quentin’s eyes crinkled at their corners as he smiled, and Eliot thought this surely must be paradise.

Margo decided to take the carriage on her calls, which suited Eliot fine. It was a beautiful day, and the best way to see Vienna was on foot, if you were daring enough. 

Todd retrieved their tophats and a cane for Eliot—purely to heighten his genteel aesthetic—and then they were off. They strolled down the lane and turned the corner and Quentin’s eyes widened as he took in the grand view of Vienna before them. Eliot beamed at him, steering him this way and that to best absorb everything. 

In his heart, Eliot loved Vienna.

Carriages sped by them at fast speeds, their drivers daring and stealthy to make their way through such crowded streets. Peddlers sold fine silk and pastel ribbons to women dressed in the modest frocks of lady’s maids while their employers strolled leisurely through the parks, parasols leaning against their shoulders and heads bowed together in search of gossip. Gentleman and students alike flocked to the cafes, hands waving as they indulged in expressive arguments over the latest new line drawn in the empire or the price of wheat. 

“Is it everything you imagined?” Eliot asked. 

Quentin nodded, not looking away from his rapturous survey. “And more.”

He made sure to analyze and enjoy each expression on Quentin’s face. Eliot understood his excitement, thinking back to the first time he had set foot in the city. The city of Vienna felt young and rich, as if its long history was simply an adolescence and could now finally come into its own. A beautiful lady that was also cultured and intellectual— accomplished in all things. 

“Watch yourself, sir,” Eliot said, grabbing Quentin’s arm and pulling him out of the way of an oncoming carriage. “Drivers here have little respect for divisions of road and walkway.”

“Apparently,” Quentin grumbled. 

And like any interesting lady, Vienna moved  _ fast.  _

Eliot took him everywhere. To the cafes on the main street for a stronger cup of coffee than their cook brewed at home, bustling with activity and conversation. Many men greeted Eliot warmly, shaking his hand and welcoming him home at last. Others, already imbibing their daily ration of beer, had not realized Eliot had left at all:

“Ah, Waugh, fantastic to see you home. You must join me and Harold for cards this Thursday–”

“Eliot Waugh, you scoundrel of a man! How could you deprive Vienna of your performances during the social season? I fear my wife will never forgive you.”

“I could have sworn I saw you performing just last week at the royal theater, are you sure you only just returned?”

Eliot took the attention joyfully, and made sure Quentin was immediately known to all:

“May I present Herr Coldwater? He is a most talented composer from Leipzig.”

“He’s here to study composition with me and learn the ways of a cosmopolitan musician. How exciting, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes, Lord Hohenberg, you  _ will _ be hearing his compositions at court. From myself and every notable pianist soon to come!”

Quentin handled it all swimmingly, nodding and smiling and bowing his head at the right moments. Men who patronized cafes were horrid gossips at best, and soon all would know that Eliot was sponsoring a humble, young composer, and how lovely was that of Herr Waugh to do? How quaint and artistic?

By midday, Eliot steered them towards the Volksgarten, a public park. They walked amongst artisans and gentry alike, the former in their rags and the latter in their finery. 

“A wonderful modern amenity, wouldn’t you say?” Eliot asked, gesturing at the gardens. “Not even ten years old, and well used by the citizenry.”

“There are so many different people here,” Quentin, his excitement unmasked in his voice. “An artist might draw from all walks of life for inspiration.”

Eliot smiled, leaning on his decorative cane as a group of young ladies passed by them, talking too fast for any mortal man to understand. 

“I thought you would like it. It’s one of the reasons I love living here,” Eliot said. “A man can see the whole world in front of him, instead of only a narrow view.”

The sun grew hotter as the afternoon drew on, and they took a rest on a shaded bench in view of the Hofberg Palace, the home of the Emperor and Eliot’s place of employment.

“Won’t you be needed at court soon?” Quentin asked, gesturing to the lavish building that loomed above the treeline. 

Eliot shrugged. “The Emperor will wait one more day.” He turned to Quentin, smiling coyly. “Some say he is far too indulgent of me.”

Quentin smiled, shaking his head. “I can relate to His Highness in some capacity then.”

Eliot resisted elbowing him playfully. He settled for a click of his teeth. 

“You wound me, Herr Coldwater, and after I spoke so highly of you to my peers."

“They seemed more excited about what this meant for your depth of character.”

Eliot gasped in mock offense. “Like a knife to the heart. My sincerity is legendary in this little town.”

“I’m sure you speak the truth.” Quentin leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. “I only joke, Eliot. I do appreciate it. I know you make sacrifices to–”

“You’re being far too serious for the early afternoon, darling,” Eliot interrupted, charmed as he was by Quentin’s warmth. “We must enjoy the time we have. Tomorrow, I will be engaged at court, and I’m sure you will shut yourself up in my office to compose.” 

Quentin nodded. “Just this little bit of wilderness will do finely for inspiration.”

Eliot’s interest was piqued. “Are you working on something new then? Have you finished editing your delightful  _ Fantasiestucke?” _

Quentin grimaced, wrinkling his nose. “I need a rest from it.”

“Perhaps you need to simply take it to the publisher.”

Quentin’s eyes widened, aghast. “No publisher would print something so unrefined.”

Eliot snorted. “Have you seen some of the compositions that make it print these days?”

Quentin pursed his lips. “No  _ respectable  _ composer, then.” 

“You are not in Leipzig anymore,” Eliot said gently. “There are many people here. Nobility, shopkeepers, artists. Virtuosos are as common here as lumber for the stoves, as are daughters who wish to play quaint music for their families and sweethearts. Publishing  _ Fantasiestucke  _ might help a young girl secure a fine husband.”

Quentin’s worried face broke into a smile. He laughed, pressing his fingers to his eyes. 

“You astound me, Eliot.”

Eliot nodded, smiling, his work complete. 

“It’s what I’m here for,” he said. “Now, edit as much as you like, but it will be time soon for me to show you to my publisher to get your career well and truly started.”

Quentin’s worry turned to hope as he absorbed the very possibility of being a published composer. More importantly, Quentin would be a  _ performed  _ composer, if Eliot’s future programming plans had anything to say about it. 

The day was fine indeed, and despite the discretion required of them out in public Eliot was eager to spend time with Quentin in the fresh air after their days of travel. What had to be spared in physical intimacies was compensated for by Quentin’s enthusiastic conversation, with the occasional stumble that accompanied his thoughts moving quicker than his lips could follow. Some would call it a flaw of diction but Eliot swore it was perfectly charming, Quentin’s soft “Um, um, I mean to say—” followed by one of his shy smiles as Eliot offered his encouragement. 

“What?” Quentin asked when Eliot was helpless except to simply beam at him as he mused over the stories of the many gardeners who must labor to keep the flowerbeds so vivid and pristine throughout the summer. 

“Herr Coldwater, you  _ know _ ,” Eliot replied simply, and the words tasted of love in his mouth. Quentin ducked his head, shy again, but a lovely spot of color rose on his cheeks. 

“Herr Waugh, I believe I do.”

Eliot laughed, effervescent, and they continued on their stroll, both their hands neatly tucked behind their backs as they wandered vaguely back towards the entrance of the park and the way home. It was the height of summer and there were many pairs of lovers about, debutantes and their beaus from the social season trailed by chaperones. He and Quentin shared a wry glance as they passed by yet another couple walking arm in arm on the path. The young lady wore a charming corsage pinned to the collar of her frock, no doubt a gift from her suitor purchased at one of the nearby vendors. With his eye caught on the little cluster of white blossoms Eliot was struck by one of those fruitless pangs of envy. Courting Margo had been filled with such small pleasures, and Eliot held those memories of exchanged tokens and supervised outings close in his heart. Yet while he intended to indulge his lover with as many gifts as he would allow, he could never share such public rituals with Quentin. 

Then he had an idea. Eliot kept up their pace as they passed by a row of flower sellers and baker’s carts until he spotted a stall dotted with lovely little white and pink blossoms, the last of the year’s primroses. 

_ Young love, _ he thought, recalling his knowledge of flower language,  _ the perfect thing.  _ Eliot paused in front of the vendor and pulled his coin purse from his jacket pocket while Quentin eyed him curiously.

“Eliot?”

“Just a quick errand,” Eliot promised, winking at Quentin before turning to address the young woman at the till. It was a simple matter to select a small bunch of pink primroses, their yellow centers cheerful in the afternoon sun. Eliot traded a few copper coins for the bouquet wrapped in simple brown paper.

“Thank you, fraulein, my wife will be terribly charmed by these.”

“And a pleasant afternoon to you, sir.”

Eliot tucked the bouquet into his elbow and they strolled on. Quentin did not offer comment on the purchase, but Eliot could see him glance at the flowers now and again. He made an effort to not disrupt his cool veneer with an anticipatory smile. 

Some yards down the path Eliot paused, and made a great show of patting down his jacket pockets until he located the kidskin gloves Todd had tucked away on his behalf that morning. Then, his hands full, he turned and offered the flowers to Quentin. 

“I wonder if you might hold these for me for a moment while I put on my gloves?”

It was a silly charade, to be sure, but it was more than worth it for Eliot to be able to hand the humble bouquet to Quentin here in the open. Quentin accepted the flowers with bright eyes as he realized Eliot’s game.

“It’s no trouble at all.”

They continued walking as Eliot put on his gloves. After, he did not ask for the flowers back, nor did Quentin offer them. When Eliot cast his glance over Quentin had his nose tucked into the tender pink blossoms, his eyes closed in bliss as he inhaled their perfume.

Eliot preened, he could not deny it. What a clever trick he had played, and what joy it had brought to his lover. 

“We shall have Todd fetch a vase for your room when we return home,” he said to Quentin as they neared the exit back to the main street. 

“Oh, no, Eliot, we may give them to Lady Margo, if that was your intention,” Quentin said, though he held the little bundle quite preciously to his breast. 

“My intention was to bestow a token of affection upon my dear friend.” Eliot spoke softly, but the bustle of the street kept his words from all but Quentin’s ears. Quentin hid his smile in the small bouquet. 

“Your dear friend is very touched,” he replied, equally soft, “And a vase would be lovely.”

It was a lovely outing, but Eliot could see the relief writ on Quentin’s face to match his own when Todd closed the door behind them and they were safe in the privacy of the townhouse once more. They passed their hats off to Franz and indulged in a cool glass of water before retiring to Quentin’s room. On the bedside table a little glass vase awaited them, left by Todd at Eliot’s request. Quentin wasted no time in setting his flowers in some water, spreading out the pink blossoms and their pale green leaves with a delicate touch. 

“They’re beautiful, Eliot,” he was finally able to say, “Thank you.” 

“Anything for your smile, darling.” Eliot felt warmed through as he pulled Quentin into his embrace. He held him, his nose in Quentin’s windswept hair and his arms about his middle. It was so lovely and quiet between them after the boisterous sounds of the city. Eliot closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

After a few moments Eliot laughed, soft under his breath, and pressed a kiss to Quentin’s temple before pressing their brows together. He stroked the back of his knuckles over the rosy flush high on Quentin’s cheeks. 

“You are looking terribly robust after some time in the sun,” he murmured, “It’s very becoming.”

“Thank you,” Quentin replied, shy again. “Though I find it is your presence, not merely the fine weather, that fills me with vigour.” 

“Poetry again,” Eliot said, drawing the palm of his hand up and down the breadth of Quentin’s back, “You continue to spoil me.” 

Quentin tipped his chin up to ask for a kiss, and Eliot was helpless but to indulge him. He gave him the eager slide of his lips and the presses of his tongue, savoring the low sounds which rumbled in Quentin’s chest.

“Eliot,” Quentin exhaled as Eliot nuzzled into the faint stubble on his jaw. He dropped kisses there until he could feel his lover shiver with desire, his hands going tight at Eliot’s waist. 

“Quentin, may I have you?” Eliot pleaded against his lover’s lips. He was breathless all over again with the pleasure of holding Quentin, kissing him, here in his home. He needed to be one with him. Quentin, blessedly was of the same mind. 

“I feared you might never ask,” he replied. He pulled Eliot toward him, still both in their full dress, until they tumbled onto the bed in a puff of feather down ticking. Even Quentin had to laugh as they rolled to the middle of the too soft bed. 

“I tried to tell her,” Eliot said as their giggles settled, “Margo knows best in many regards, but there is a certain firmness required of a bed if it is to bear the passions of two grown men.” 

Quentin kissed him, his smile creasing the corners of his eyes in a manner that always made Eliot feel entirely saccharine. 

“We shall make do,” Quentin said, with the air of a housewife about to embark on a trip to the grocer with very little pocket change. He broke into another fresh ration of giggles, until Eliot put him on his back and undressed him, and their laughter took on quite a different timbre after that.

Oh, how sweetly Quentin cried out as Eliot rocked into him. He would never tire of this music, he was certain, just as he was certain he would never tire of the softness of Quentin’s skin, nor the firm, masculine shape of his hands, nor the hot, tight clench of his body around Eliot’s cock. Eliot pleasured his lover until Quentin was senseless, spilling with Eliot’s name reverent on his lips and tears in his eyes.

“My love,” Eliot asked after he had spent inside him, when they lay warm and sated in the golden afternoon light, “Are you happy?” 

Quentin kept his face tucked into the curve of Eliot’s throat, where he could feel the shape of his smile. 

“I have never been so happy as I have been today,” he murmured, “Thank you, Eliot.”

Eliot kissed the top of Quentin’s head, then turned him so that Eliot could tuck himself along his back and wrap him in his long limbs. Quentin’s only response to the manhandling was a soft contented sigh. Feeling accomplished, Eliot settled in for a lovely nap before supper.

He mused, as he drifted off, that even when Quentin eventually tired of him Eliot would surely survive it, so long as he first could have many more days like this one to keep tucked away in his heart forever.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! We are so excited to post this extra-long chapter, and more Viennese delights await you!

“Bravo! Very nice indeed, Herr–?”

“Coldwater,” Quentin said, trying to mask his exasperation as he turned away from the grand piano to face the gentleman behind the desk. 

It was the third time he had to remind Herr Bauer of his name. 

“That’s right,” Bauer said, smiling jovially. “I’m sure this will find a great market here, especially with the stamp of approval from Waugh.”

Quentin smiled. “I’m glad to hear it, sir.”

After a day of editing had turned into a week of tearing his hair out over the finer points of his _Fantasiestucke,_ Eliot had seen fit to drag him out by that same hair and get him moving in a more productive direction. Shoving a letter of introduction into his hands, he set him off in the direction of his publisher, his freshly copied manuscript in hand. Quentin had played samples of his suite for Herr Bauer while trying to explain how each piece fit with the other, and how they would be a fine purchase for a home music maker or virtuoso alike. 

Herr Bauer was a genial man who smoked a pipe and whose thick fingers didn’t appear at all pianistic. Still, he had received Quentin warmly and clapped after each presentation, so Quentin couldn’t really complain with good conscience. He leafed through Quentin’s manuscript once more, nodding as he pulled a few of the papers out and separated them from the stack. 

“Yes… I think _Des Abends, Aufschwung,_ and _Fabel_ will do wonderfully for our needs,” he said, handing the remainder of the suite back to Quentin.

Quentin’s jaw fell open as he received the jumble of papers back in his hands. _In Der Nacht_ sat on top, Eliot’s favorite of the suite. 

“Forgive me, sir, are you saying you will not be publishing the entire set?”

Bauer lit his pipe. “Don’t fret, my boy, this is only the start for you. You will soon see what the public is truly clamoring for.”

Quentin’s brow furrowed. The public had given his works a standing ovation… or had they only given it to Eliot?

He straightened, squaring his shoulders. “I respect your expertise, sir, but I had hoped they would be published as a set, a suite if you will, as I explained before it’s a story of–"

“Yes, yes, I understand,” Bauer interrupted, waving a hand as if Quentin’s explanation were an annoying insect. “It is only that music sells far better in individual packaging, and some of these are simply too short for that.”

Quentin bit his lip. “Too short?”

“Yes, like that– what was it? _Warum._ Too short, and too unfinished sounding out of context. Not tidy enough to grab a curious musical amateur with one shiny coin to spend on a new selection.”

“I see.” Quentin shuffled through his papers. He had carefully copied each selection himself. “What of _In der Nacht?_ Or _Traumes Wirren?_ They are both nearly six pages long each. Surely that is long enough to be worth your while?”

Bauer took another puff of his pipe. The sticky sound of his lips smacking together grated on Quentin’s nerves. 

“They are long enough, to be sure, but far too difficult to play for your market, I’m afraid.”

“My market, sir?”

“Music for the home, Coldwater. Daughters of merchants, second sons looking to make themselves appear interesting, bored housewives– entertainment for the home. I doubt they would be able to make sense of this… _In der Nacht.”_ He looked at Quentin, sitting forward when he saw what must have been a horrified expression. “Now don’t look so offended, my boy, this is a very wide and profitable market. Afterall, there are far more merchant’s daughters than there are virtuosos, are there not?”

“I suppose so, sir.”

Bauer smiled. “There you are. Something so difficult would not sell, I’m afraid, and you have to start somewhere, wouldn’t you agree?”

Quentin nodded, smiling tensely. 

Quentin left the publishing office with a few banknotes, a certificate of publication, and a tremendous headache. 

He wove through the city streets, his mood turning darker the closer he got to Eliot and Margo’s townhouse. He felt a fool, and a pompous fool at that. How could he have been so arrogant to think that his pieces would be published as he intended them, with his own autobiographical intentions intact? _Of course_ the works that had consumed him these past months were only suitable for home enjoyment, with the more difficult selections not even worth publishing– 

A carriage rode by at a clip, splattering mud on Quentin’s shoes and bottoms of his trousers. He could have screamed to the heavens. 

Wet and tired, he made his way back to the townhouse, feeling more dejected than ever. More than anything, he dreaded having to explain this to Eliot, who waited for him to arrive home with good news. 

“Darling? Is that you?” He heard Eliot call as Todd let him in the front door, taking Quentin’s top hat. Eliot descended the stairs, looking as coiffed and put-together as always. “Oh my dear– I am always telling you watch your step on the main roads.”

“It was my fault,” Quentin mumbled. “Wasn’t watching where I was going.”

Eliot smiled, the very picture of energy as he gave Quentin a peck hello on his cheek as soon as Todd closed the door. “No matter. How was the publishers? Were you able to see Herr Bauer?”

“Yes,” Quentin said, setting his bag and folio down near the staircase to be taken up later.

Eliot frowned. “What’s wrong?”

Quentin sighed, the sound bitter in his ear. “Shall we discuss it over dinner?”

Eliot’s brow furrowed, but then he seemed to catch himself, straightening and plastering his smile back on his face. It was as though he did not wish Quentin to see him experiencing an unattractive emotion. Quentin shuddered to think that Eliot’s smiles were anything other than genuine. He wondered if his mood truly appeared so sour, that Eliot would feel the need to make a show of false cheer to placate him.

“Of course!” he said, conviviality dripping from his every word. “Go wash up. I’m sure Margo has much to share from her call with the von Gustenberg’s.”

Quentin did just that, changing his undershirt as well as his muddy trousers after a long day of bashing around town in the full warmth and humidity of summer After washing his face and retying his hair he felt somewhat better, the knot in his chest loosening as he descended the stairs and took in Eliot and Margo’s laughter coming from the dining room. Eliot was clearly in the middle of one of his stories of court. 

“And then his Majesty said, ‘Perhaps the lady would be more suited to playing the piano _without_ the accompaniment of her singing voice.’” Eliot and Margo laughed without restraint as Quentin took his seat. “I thought that wicked Countess was going to swallow her own tongue in the middle of the imperial music hall.”

They were served tender cuts of pork topped with an elegant plum sauce as Eliot continued his story. Quentin had learned quickly that Eliot and Margo enjoyed fine food and wine, taking a formal dinner each night as if they were hosting a party of twelve foreign dukes they needed to impress. They dressed for it as well, wearing their best clothes and accessories even though only Quentin and the servants would be privy to them. Quentin had inquired about the ritual one evening as he watched Todd assist Eliot in changing and readying himself for dinner. 

“Why, I hadn’t truly thought about it,” Eliot answered as he tied his black necktie. “I suppose it’s simply what Margo and I have always done. There is a certain comfort to formality, and we have far more clothes than we can wear to balls and performances, though–” He turned, smiling coyly at Quentin seated on his bed. “I do enjoy our bedroom picnics as a change of pace.”

Quentin was content to listen to their gossip and push the delicious food around his plate until Margo turned to him at last, her expression curious. 

“I had nearly forgotten– Quentin, how was your meeting with Herr Bauer?”

Quentin chose that moment to bite into a piece of meat, stalling. He chewed slowly, swallowing only when Eliot looked up from his plate at him. 

“Mostly a success,” he said finally. “I’m afraid Herr Bauer did not think it wise to publish all the works as a set.”

Eliot’s brow furrowed. “So then he will publish them all separately?”

Quentin shook his head. He took a few moments to explain his meeting with Herr Bauer, attempting to seem cool and practical. He echoed Bauer’s sentiments: of course, this was only a start– there would be other opportunities, etc. He tried to focus on the positive outcome, but Eliot’s frowned deepened with his every word. 

“Perhaps it’s disappointing, but it’s a start,” Quentin said, repeating himself for the third time. “I need to get my work circulating through Vienna, and this will do that.”

Margo wrinkled her nose. Eliot tapped his fingers on the table, his food mostly untouched on his plate. 

“Bauer will do anything to make a few coins,” Margo said. “I’m sure this will only be temporary.”

“I should have gone with you,” Eliot said, stepping on her last words.

Quentin’s heart sank.

“Perhaps you should have,” Quentin said, his voice dripping with bitterness. He sighed, shaking his head. “No, I didn’t mean that. I must make my own way as much as I can.”

When he looked up Eliot was frowning. Margo watched him with pursed lips, as if she recognized that frown. 

“Wouldn’t you agree?” Quentin asked him, confused and worried at his expression. 

Eliot looked away, picking up his fork.

“Of course, darling. I only wish to support you.”

“And you have.” Quentin smiled, looking between him and Margo. “I was foolish to suspect that my move here would mean instant success. I’m patient– and I have more music to share.”

Eliot smiled, and looked more himself then. “Words that excite, wouldn’t you say, Margo?”

Margo was already reaching for the decanter of wine left on the table. “Whatever you say, dear. Why anyone would want to be a musician is beyond me.”

The rest of the dinner passed with more pleasant conversation, and Quentin tried to put his failures and Eliot’s strange frown out of his mind in the days to come, turning his attention to new compositions. Another week went by, then two, and Quentin found himself settling into his new Viennese. 

Eliot rose early each day to practice piano and to compose, his playing a lullaby to Quentin who often slept late despite his best efforts to rise and take breakfast with Margo. Eliot went to the Hofburg palace in the early afternoon twice a week to teach well-bred ladies the art of the piano and to compose specifically for state affairs, leaving Quentin with many free hours to himself to compose. He worked tirelessly, the half-rejection of the _Fantasiestucke_ providing more inspiration than depression, which he took as a good sign. He began a new set of short works, light and airy where the _Fantasiestucke_ was heavy and deep.

Armed with new music, he found himself in better spirits, and just as he was feeling better, the Waugh’s threw a new branch in his path: Eliot and Margo decided to throw a lavish party.

“It will be _divine_ ,” Eliot explained in bed one evening, his silk robe falling from his shoulder. “It’s truly a crime– nearly the end of summer and we have neglected to introduce you to anyone of importance! Now, I suspect that a proper receival at court would cause you untold anxiety–”

“You would be correct,” Quentin mumbled as he pressed soft kisses to the bare skin of Eliot’s shoulder. “I don’t wish to go to court.”

“Then this is the next best thing!” Eliot was unmoved by Quentin’s attempts to seduce him away from the topic, turning and knocking his lips free. “It won’t be anything grand, since with the ending of the season so many have moved to their country estates, but that’s alright! An intimate gathering with all our closest friends and acquaintances can be just as lovely.”

Quentin grinned, gleeful in truth at Eliot’s excitement, no matter the pain and awkwardness it would cause him. 

“Isn’t the nature of acquaintances such that you _aren’t_ very close to them?”

Eliot grimaced, shoving him lightly on the shoulder. Quentin fell dramatically backwards against the pillows, allowing Eliot to crawl over him like a tiger and cage him in deliciously. 

“Don’t try to distract me with logic, dearheart,” Eliot said, dipping down to press his mouth to Quentin’s neck. “You will attend the party, and you _will_ enjoy yourself.” 

Quentin hummed, threading his fingers through Eliot’s hair. 

“Says who?” he asked, his breathless quality negating any bite to the sentiment.

Eliot pulled back. “Your lord, of course.”

Quentin laughed, and in a practiced motion they had perfected since being allotted more space than Quentin’s tiny Leipzig bed had allowed, wrapped his legs around him and flipped them, straddling his hips. Eliot didn’t feel the need to justify the party after that, or anything else at all, for the rest of the evening. 

In truth, Quentin wasn’t completely against the party. It would help him make connections with greater society, especially in a city where he had no family. Still, it was not the opportunity that made him dread it, but his own lack of practice in the very rigid social graces of privileged circles. Even in Eliot and Margo’s simpler home with looser restrictions on behavior, he still made mistakes. For one, his interactions with the servants. 

Eliot and Margo employed not only Todd and Fen to see to their personal household needs, they also made use of a cook, scullery maid, two housemaids that came to work each morning, and a footman. Quentin had grown up in similar, if more rural circumstances what with his father finding success as a captain in the army. His estate had been small and provincial, but not without its comforts. However, he had not been waited on for several years, ever since taking on his studies at Heidelberg. His move to Leipzig had been in acceptance of his life as a starving artist, and now...

“Allow me to get that for you, Herr Coldwater!”

“Oh,” Quentin said awkwardly one morning before going on his daily walk, his top hat already removed from the stand and on his head. “I’m sorry, Franz, I wasn’t thinking.”

Franz, the young footman employed at the townhouse, had been charged with ‘looking after’ Quentin (“You know, just for little things, to press your shirts and such,” Eliot had said, waving a hand as if he could magically make Quentin into an aristocrat. “I know you are too humble to allow yourself to be properly dressed.”), a venture that proved most exasperating for the young footman. As it turned out, even the little things were a challenge. 

“Think nothing of it, Herr Coldwater,” Franz said, breathing a little heavy from his run from the stairway. “I’ll be sure to get it next time.”

Quentin felt immeasurable guilt that Franz blamed himself for his own lack of decorum. This was probably the young man’s one chance to train as a valet and gain valuable skills for his career, but the truth was that Quentin had more important things to worry about. 

Namely, that Eliot had now turned to his wardrobe and made it his newest crusade. 

One morning in particular, Todd showed Eliot and Margo a number of fabric swatches for tablecloths intended the upcoming party over breakfast while Quentin daydreamed about his new compositions, edits and additions he wished to make...

Through his daydream, he heard his name. 

“And then we’ll have to see to Q and his terrible wardrobe—“

“Q, sir?”

“Ah, I meant Herr Coldwater, Todd. Do forgive me.”

Quentin sat up straight. “What was that about my wardrobe?”

Eliot sighed, throwing up his hands. “It’s not that _I_ don’t love your rustic attire, my love, but you should be seen as a gentleman by society, as is your right. And I’ve always found that a party is a fine excuse for new clothes.”

Quentin frowns. “That sounds expensive, Eliot. There’s really no need—” 

Eliot exchanged a knowing glance with Margo before setting down his coffee cup in order to take Quentin’s hand. 

“Q,” he said, ever patient as he stroked his thumb over Quentin’s knuckles. “Let us pretend—and I realize this is a great stretch of the imagination, but let us pretend—that I am a particularly vain person, and that that vanity extends to the personage of my lover, whom I would like to dress in a manner that will properly accentuate his otherwise breathtaking good looks.”

It was Quentin’s turn to exchange a knowing glance with Margo, who grinned at him over her coffee. 

“‘Breathtaking’?” he repeated, raising one eyebrow. Eliot ignored him, instead pulling Quentin’s hand to his lips. 

“My dearest, won’t you indulge me?”

And so Quentin found himself on the doorstep of Eliot’s tailor bright and early the next morning. Apparently, appointments normally took longer to arrange, but Quentin was hardly surprised to learn that Eliot was a particularly beloved patron of Herr Meyer. Even after several months of intimate companionship Quentin could not say for certain that he had ever seen Eliot wear the same waistcoat twice. He hardly wanted to think on how much of their income Eliot and Margo likely spent on clothes between them, but he could admit he felt a bit shabby amongst the cosmopolitan fashions of Vienna. A new coat couldn’t hurt, or a few shirts. Eliot was practically bouncing on his heels at the prospect of dressing him, and Quentin would endure significantly more hardship than a suit fitting to make his lover happy.

“It’s quite a bustle in the back rooms, what with sewing suits for half the gentry,” Eliot confided as Quentin admired the perfectly manicured window boxes. “Not that we’ll ever see that. Gerhard always likes an elegant environment for the customer.”

“Herr Meyer is kept busy with his trade, then?” Quentin was surprised to find the tailor’s “shop” appeared for all intents and purposes to be a townhouse, far more humble than Eliot’s home but nonetheless situated at the edge of a respectable residential neighborhood. 

“He is practically an _institution_ in Vienna,” Eliot said as they were let in by an apprentice who took their hats and Eliot’s cane. He gave Quentin a pointed look. “He and I frequent many of the same clubs.”

“Oh, I see,” Quentin said, then with a strange flutter in his belly he asked: “Have you and he ever—”

Eliot seemed to find this amusing, though he touched a reassuring hand to Quentin’s back as they were led down a short hall that smelled lightly of steam, starch, and wool. Muffled, Quentin could hear the hum of men’s conversation and the whir of sewing machines. 

“I think not, Q. Even I must draw some boundaries when it comes to age difference, though I hear dear Gerhard was known as quite the libertine around the turn of the century.” 

Quentin realized his misunderstanding when he and Eliot were shown into a spacious, dark paneled fitting room where Eliot’s tailor waited for them, eighty years old if he was a day and impeccably dressed. He wore a brown coat over powder blue trousers and a gaily checkered cravat. He had a verve about him to match his fashion, and an impressive set of bushy eyebrows which reminded Quentin fondly of his grandfather. He ushered them into the room where a fitting dais and several tall mirrors waited, a measuring tape already thrown over his shoulder. 

“Come in, come in, gentlemen.” Herr Meyer spoke with a genteel accent and a voice that hinted at a lifelong love for pipe tobacco. Eliot pressed his hand warmly as Quentin took in their surroundings. It seemed every surface in the room held a display of neckties, or a book of textile samples. A full mannequin stood at the far end of the room, showing off a frock coat finer than any clothing Quentin had ever seen, let alone worn.

“Gerhard, it is so _good_ to see you.” 

“Herr Waugh, always a pleasure to have you in my humble shop,” Gerhard replied. “I feared your tour might go on too long, and you would miss a whole season’s worth of London’s latest.” 

“I could never abandon you in such a way, sir,” Eliot hand pressed to his chest in mock affront. “In fact, I’ve brought you a whole new customer in desperate need of your good taste.” 

“Is that so?” Gerhard asked, turning his keen eye to Quentin. “Where did you find this young man? He’s of such a lovely average height for trousers.” 

“I thought you might enjoy that change of pace.” Eliot said, winking at Quentin. He did quite tower over Gerhard, who Quentin would guess was a bit shorter than his own middling height even before he bent with age.

“This is Quentin Coldwater, a remarkable talent I discovered on my provincial tour,” Eliot continued, setting a hand quite boldly at the small of Quentin’s back. “He’s a _very_ dear friend, Gerhard. I trust you to take good care of him.” 

“A dearer friend than most, I would imagine,” Gerhard guessed, with an appraising look at Quentin that assured him they were indeed in the presence of a like-minded man. “You are most welcome, Herr Coldwater.”

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Herr Meyer,” Quentin said, offering the tailor a short bow. Gerhard raised his eyebrows. 

“Aren’t you formal,” he said, clearly amused. 

“Um, forgive me?” Quentin replied unsure whether he should offer a hand to shake. 

“No, no, by all means. I can certainly appreciate a set of good country manners.” Gerhard assured him. “Come in and let me get a look at you, then we can talk about a few suits.”

Quentin was set upon the dais, and from then on he might as well have been a mannequin himself for how little Gerhard seemed concerned with him. The tailor moved him about as he saw fit, muttering a bit under his breath as he examined Quentin’s current garb with a critical eye. Compared to Gerhard— and certainly to Eliot, who looked stunning as always in a pale gray suit and an apricot waistcoat— Quentin was beginning to feel as if he were wearing a vagrants rags that he’d found on a street corner.

“This coat is horribly unsuited to your build, but it is a fine bit of wool,” Gerhard declared at last while Eliot busied himself flipping through a large book of the latest patterns from London. “Leipzig make?”

“Um, yes.” Quentin replied, “How did you know?” 

“It’s what I do, dear, and a Leipzig textile is unmistakable in this day and age.” Gerhard completed his survey and sighed. “ _Such_ a shame I cannot put you in green,” he sighed. “It would be grand with your coloring.” 

“I lament the same thing every day,” Eliot chimed in, his hands already full of an overwhelming number of fabrics, no doubt plucked from Gerhard’s catalogue. “Perhaps a nice navy, though? Or aubergine, to bring out the gold in his eyes—”

“Let’s not get swept up in romance, Herr Waugh,” Gerhard, interjected, though his eyes twinkled. He pulled the measuring tape from around his neck. “This is a most serious business. Now Herr Coldwater, if you would remove your coat we can begin.” 

Gerhard proved quite spry for his age, taking Quentin’s most intimate measurements with the ease of decades of practice. He called out numbers to an apprentice who noted each figure on a long sheet of paper. Unusual as it was to be handled so clinically, Quentin grew more comfortable as the measurements went on, moving only with Gerhard’s soft _if you would lift your arm like so, sir,_ and _if you would set your feet in line with your shoulders as you see me_. 

Having one’s inseam measured was far less excruciating when you were in the hands of an expert.

While Gerhard and his assistant handled the brass tax of a preliminary fitting, Eliot concerned himself with aesthetics. Like a boy in a sweet shop, Eliot darted around Gerhard, laying various strips wool and silk over Quentin’s shoulders until he appeared to wear a bizarre pair of patchwork epaulettes.

“Darling, I know I promised temperance, but I have no idea how I will choose between any of these waistcoat patterns.”

“Perhaps I will have an opinion, and that will aid us in narrowing the selection,” Quentin replied, raising an eyebrow at Eliot’s fretting. Eliot’s answering expression told Quentin that his opinion would have little bearing on the day’s purchases, which perhaps was just as well, considering his fashion record thus far.

“I suppose it will come down to the jackets,” Eliot continued, laying a brown, then a charcoal, then a deep violet wool over Quentin’s other shoulder, “Oh, I should have asked Margo what she planned to wear before deciding on your evening look. We cannot have any of us too match-match, you understand—”

“Herr Waugh,” Gerhard interrupted, fond exasperation written on his face as he slipped his measuring tape back around his neck, “Perhaps I could have Johann fetch you some tea? Or an ashtray, if you’d like to have a cigarette on the sofa?”

“Oh, certainly. I must be underfoot, forgive me, Gerhard—”

“Yes, yes—” Gerhard herded Eliot gently off the dais to a little velvet loveseat nearby. Eliot winked at Quentin over the tailor’s shoulder, not at all chastened, but he took a seat obediently. 

“Johann,” Gerhard addressed his apprentice, “Do see that Herr Waugh has everything he needs. I shall mark the last few figures myself.”

Quentin had no problem remaining still for the last of Gerhard’s measurements, as he was far too busy looking at Eliot. God, but he was so effortlessly elegant, his long limbs draped over the sofa and a cigarette dangling from his fingers as he watched Quentin in turn. Johann offered him a match, and then Eliot was haloed in a soft cloud of smoke. Quentin wished they were home, that he might lean into Eliot’s side or sit on his lap, but he also wanted to be seen with him in public, to match Eliot’s perfect image of aristocracy. He stood taller as Gerhard finished his measurements, suddenly eager to be dressed so that the world might see him as Eliot’s equal. Not for the first time he wanted Eliot to be proud of him, especially so for the upcoming party.

A flicker of movement brought Quentin out of his musings. He watched Gerhard’s assistant Johann lean in quite close to Eliot, murmuring some low inquiry into his ear. Eliot’s gaze flickered down the young man’s figure briefly, but he looked to Quentin with a smile as he shook his head. Whatever the question, Johann seemed to take Eliot’s decline with good enough spirits, setting a crystal ashtray on the nearby end table before taking up his post at Gerhard’s side once more. 

“There we are,” Gerhard declared, setting aside his measuring tape and passing his apprentice the finished page of figures. “Now if you’ll pardon me, I believe I have a few stock pieces in the back that will give you a clearer vision of what’s to come.”

Gerhard left them and took Johann with him, leaving them alone. Eliot seemed quite content to keep his seat and admire Quentin in his state of undress. Quentin wouldn’t lie and say he disliked the attention, but he still had a question on his mind.

“That seemed quite the silent conversation,” Quentin noted lightly, indicating the ashtray Johan had delivered. Eliot hummed, blotting out the end of his cigarette before rising to his feet to smooth out Quentin’s shirtsleeves. 

“Nothing of consequence,” he promised, meeting Quentin’s eye in one of the long mirrors before them. He whispered, chin hooked over Quentin’s shoulder: “Once upon a time Johann might have been quite generous with ‘extra services’. For a proper tip, of course.” 

Quentin felt his cheeks heat as Eliot ran his hands up and down Quentin’s sides. 

“Is that so?”

“In lean times an eager mouth can provide all manner of solace,” Eliot said with a wistful sigh. “But I hardly have need of such shallow dalliances at present, hm?” 

“Hardly,” Quentin agreed, voice a bit husky. He couldn’t take his eyes from their reflection in the mirror, imagining Eliot in his place, clad only in his shirtsleeves and at his feet Gerhard’s apprentice, _serving_ him. Johann seemed a fine enough young man— a bit plain for Quentin’s taste, if he was being honest— but as Eliot said, there were times when a soft mouth was all one needed. How Eliot must have looked—Quentin couldn’t help but think of the scene—standing sure and strong, a high flush of pleasure in his cheeks but biting his lip, making not a sound lest someone hear down the hall— 

“Darling, I hope you aren’t jealous.” 

Eliot looked at him with mild concern, but Quentin hummed, shaking his head. 

“‘Jealous’ is not the word I would use.”

Eliot must have caught the slight rasp to Quentin’s response, because his eyes went hot before the door to the dressing room opened and Gerhard returned carrying several jackets covered in all manner of tags and pins. Eliot deftly removed his hands from Quentin’s waist and stepped away, though the wry twist of Gerhard’s mouth indicated that their antics did not go unnoticed. Feeling a bit like a chastened schoolboy, Quentin allowed the tailor to help him into a velvet coat in a rich chocolate brown. 

“It’s a bit warm for now, but I wouldn’t shop too much for summer what with the cooler seasons just around the corner.” Gerhard moved about him, adjusting his lapels and moving a few pins here and there. “Now don’t concern yourself too much with the fit, as we’ll be making you one from the studs of course, but let’s look at the shape. I imagine you might not favor so nipped a waist as Herr Waugh prefers.”

“Quite.” 

“A tall man can have as fine a waist as he likes,” Gerhard continued, clearly teasing Eliot, “But for those of us not so blessed we prefer something to square out the shoulders. Now how do you feel about the lapels, Herr Coldwater?”

This discussion continued for sometime over the evening jacket, and then again with a lighter wool coat for daytime. Eliot and Gerhard had many more opinions than Quentin, but he was more than content to let them debate charcoal versus dove gray while he admired himself in the long mirror. Admittedly, he looked quite luxurious compared to his current wardrobe. He wished he had worn the cravat Eliot had gifted him in Leipzig. He felt nearly ready to appear at a party in Eliot’s house with all the uppercrust of Vienna, even with the pins poking his skin. 

They eventually decided against brown for his evening jacket, with Eliot quite married to navy blue and Quentin in agreement once he saw how well the swatch of material sat against his hair and eyes. 

“And I shall add a navy necktie to the order for your own wardrobe, Herr Waugh,” Gerhard said, “The pair of you shall look quite well together. Ah, that is, not _too_ well, but you catch my meaning.”

“You are a wicked man, Gerhard, but I find it a scintillating little notion.” Eliot agreed. “It’s the smallest details that make the heart race. Now about the day suit...” 

He touched Quentin under the chin as he set the wool options they were debating back on his shoulder. An hour later, Quentin stepped back out into the early afternoon sun at Eliot’s side, the soon to be owner of a navy velvet coat, a dove gray suit, a pair of tan trousers and a pair of black, no less than five waistcoats, two new white shirts, and several neckties. 

“Ah, there is nothing so invigorating as time spent among men who properly appreciate clothes, wouldn’t you say, Q?” 

Quentin smiled despite himself. After all his trepidation it had been a most pleasant morning. Eliot pulled out his pocket watch as they turned the corner away from Gerhard’s shop.

“Would you look at the time,” he said, beaming at Quentin. “If we hurry home we shall be in time for tea with Margo. What a fine day this has shaped up to be.”

Tea with the Lady Waugh was a cheerful affair, as Margo was eager to hear about their adventures with Gerhard, as well as discuss the details of the coming party that had yet to be settled. Quentin contributed to Eliot’s humorous anecdotes where he pleased, otherwise satisfied to listen to the conversations of husband and wife and let his thoughts wander after their busy morning. His thoughts continued to wander to one particular place, and as they drained their cups Quentin couldn’t help but drag his gaze up the generous length of Eliot’s immaculately tailored figure.

“Something on your mind, Q?” 

Margo was suddenly quite occupied in buttering another scone, but her comment caught Eliot’s attention, and he turned to Quentin with a lascivious grin. 

“Indeed, Quentin, your thoughts seem elsewhere,” he said, teasing up Quentin’s calf with the toe of his polished black shoe. 

Quentin cleared his throat. “Just a tricky section of a new composition I’ve been laboring over,” he lied, “If you have a few minutes, Eliot, might you join me upstairs and take a look?”

The expression of anticipatory delight on Eliot’s face indicated that he held no objection. 

They left an amused Margo downstairs and retreated to Quentin’s room. Once inside, Quentin turned, making a show of welcoming Eliot inside just as they had been welcomed to Gehard’s shop that morning. 

“Herr Waugh, do come in. Might I take your hat?” 

“...I’m afraid I left it with the footman,” Eliot replied, bemused but trying to play along, “Quentin, what—”

“Herr Meyer is running behind with another appointment, but he’s asked me to make you as comfortable as possible until he arrives. Please let me hang up your coat.” 

Quentin felt self-conscious now, almost silly, as Eliot allowed him to undress him until he stood in only his shirtsleeves. What if Eliot merely laughed at him? Still, he managed to press on with hardly a tremor in his voice. 

Quentin gazed up at Eliot though his lashes as he delicately removed his cufflinks. 

“Your fitting will begin shortly, Herr Waugh, but in the meantime, is there any other way I might _serve_ you?”

He observed the moment Eliot’s gaze went sharp and hot, and a soft _oh_ escaped his lover’s lips. Eliot stood taller then, his back straight, as he stood when they spoke with other men in cafes or when he gave the footman an order. His expression utterly aloof, he tipped Quentin’s chin up with a careless hand as if to inspect him, and that sent a delicious little thrill down Quentin’s spine. 

“And what is your name?”

Goodness, he must have been bright red if the heat in his cheeks were anything to go by. “Q-Quentin, sir.”

“Quentin,” Eliot rolled the name in his mouth as though he were tasting it for the first time. He thumbed over the swell of Quentin’s lower lip, gaze considering. “Boldness is a trait I find admirable in a young man. Perhaps we can come to an arrangement which shall be rewarding for us both.” 

“Spare wealth is a trait I find admirable in an older man,” Quentin parried, containing his grin at the flash in Eliot’s gaze. “I’m sure whatever reward you decide will be more than amenable, my lord.” 

Eliot pulled him into a kiss which was far more intimate and heated than Quentin imagined he would have granted Johann. 

“On your knees, dear Q,” Eliot whispered between their lips, hands greedy over Quentin’s jaw. “Let’s see if you earn a silver piece.”

“Right away, Herr Waugh.” 

Some minutes later Quentin came, still on his knees, his cock in his eager fist and Eliot in his mouth. Eliot followed soon after, his veneer of businesslike entitlement long shattered as he spilled into Quentin’s mouth with a soft groan. 

“My darling, what an imagination you have,” Eliot breathed as he came down, pulling Quentin into his arms. Quentin laughed through a tender kiss, shivering as his lips tingled against Eliot’s. 

“I suppose it cannot all be channeled into my compositions,” he said leaning his head on Eliot’s shoulder. 

Eliot pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “How lucky for me.”

* * *

Herr Meyer cut it quite close to his deadline, but as Eliot said greatness refused be rushed. It was only a handful of days until Eliot and Margo’s planned soiree when Todd answered the door to an overwhelming delivery of garment boxes and a printed bill which he spirited right out of Quentin’s hand. 

“I shall have these up to your room in just a moment, sir.” 

Margo found Quentin there some half-hour later, staring down the small mountain of packages with a mix of anticipation and trepidation. 

“My, isn’t this an exciting moment.” She strode into Quentin’s rooms as if she owned them— which in retrospect, she did— still in her gloves and bonnet from a charity luncheon. The volume of her soft tawny colored skirts made his generously sized room seem quite much closer. 

“Didn’t Todd want to help you unpack all of this?” she asked. 

“Lady Margo, good day,” Quentin said, standing from his desk chair. “I asked him to leave them. I thought I might wait for Eliot, and we could go through them this evening.” 

“You certainly know the way to the man’s heart, Quentin,” Lady Margo removed her bonnet and sat it on Quentin’s desk. “But perhaps a little preview, hm? I’ve just come from a very dull picnic.” 

Quentin took little convincing, and they unlidded a few boxes to reveal his new gray suit, and the navy dinner jacket, of which Margo hummed her approval. 

“Eliot does have an eye for these things,” she said, stroking the rich velvet. “You’ll wear this to the party, yes?” 

“Yes, with, um—” Quentin opened a few more boxes to find the two waistcoats he was debating between, a sienna dotted with small paisleys or a white and ivory stripe that he was dreading spilling soup on. “I’ve been waiting to try them on to decide which is more suited. I imagine Eliot will have an opinion.”

“I imagine he will. Either way, you will look quite fine, Herr Coldwater,” Margo agreed, setting the ivory silk against Quentin’s chest to get a better look. Quentin couldn’t help but note how different her hands were than Eliot’s, though he had touched him in much the same manner during Quentin’s many fittings. 

Setting the waistcoat aside, Margo sighed with a playful twist to her painted lips. “This shall be quite the metamorphosis. If I didn’t think it would break Eliot’s heart I would be tempted to steal you away myself.” 

“I—um—my lady, I don’t—” Eliot’s wife laughed at Quentin’s hapless sputtering. 

“Do pull yourself together, Quentin. Your virtue is safe,” she assured him, though her eyes glittered. “Now, have Todd press that gray wool, and I think the waistcoat with the lovely vine pattern, and we shall see my husband’s jaw drop tonight when you come down for dinner.” 

Quentin’s cheeks were hot as he pulled the bell for Todd. 

“As you say, my lady." 

Margo departed as easily as she came, and Quentin thought not for the first time that Eliot Waugh and his wife were very well suited.

* * *

The day of the party felt like a whirlwind around Quentin. Work and study was put aside for the preparations, Eliot and Margo acting as overseers while the servants made the house ready for their guests. 

Quentin came to realize that Eliot and Margo took entertaining _very_ seriously. 

Fen and the maids cleaned the townhouse from top to bottom until every surface gleamed. Margo supervised the moving of furniture to better facilitate conversation as if it were a scientific experiment. Decadent summer flower arrangements graced the dinner table and any surface available that required some extra color. Eliot planned out the dinner with the cook in his study as if it were a matter of state importance. 

The evening came quickly, and servant and master alike retreated to their corners to dress for the evening. Quentin accepted Franz’s help for the first time, needing the dashing young footman’s advice on how to fashionably tie his newest cravat—robin’s egg blue, which Eliot swore did not clash with the brown paisley waistcoat— and fasten the fiddly cufflinks at his wrist. Lastly, he drew on his new navy coat. Franz brushed stray bits of lint from his shoulders as Quentin took in the full look of new suit in the mirror. 

“Are you happy with it, sir?” Franz asked earnestly. 

Quentin smiled, straightening his cuffs over his wrists. 

“Yes, Franz, thank you for your help.”

Footsteps approached, and the door opened with a creak. 

“Oh, I _knew_ those colors would suit you.”

Quentin turned, a smile spreading across his face as he took in Eliot leaning in the doorway, already dressed and ready for the party. Eliot wore a rich black coat over light trousers, but the look was far from somber with his bright checked cravat and the deep wine red of his waistcoat, printed subtly with tiny rosebuds, each with their own embroidered green leaf. 

“Thank you, Franz,” Eliot said, straightening to his full height. “I will see to Herr Coldwater myself.”

Franz nodded his bow before exiting the room quietly. He was no sooner gone that Eliot had his arms around Quentin, his front pressed to his back, running his gloved hands over the expertly tailored material covering Quentin’s waist. 

Eliot traced the shell of his ear with his lips. 

“Exquisite,” he breathed against the skin. 

Quentin sighed, turning over his shoulder. “Could you repeat that?”

Eliot smiled, always delighted by Quentin’s flirtations. He took hold of his chin with his fingers to more successfully kiss his lips. The fabric of his gloves was smooth against his skin. 

“Exquisite,” he repeated, kissing the line of his jaw. “Beautiful.” One to the skin under his chin. “Enchanting.” Another still to his temple. “Do you require more clarification?”

“All is clear now,” Quentin said, laughing softly but leaning into the touch. 

Eliot hummed and stepped back, running his fingers through Quentin’s hair. 

“How would you like to wear this?” He asked. 

Quentin knew that Eliot particularly favored his hair, forever tugging it out of his usual low knot any time they were intimate. Eliot preferred it soft and loose, framing Quentin’s face. 

“As you see it, I think, but would you–” He palmed the brush that sat on his dresser, handing it to him over his shoulder. “Would you?”

Eliot smiled and took the brush, steering Quentin to the straight-backed chair at the foot of his bed. He ran it through Quentin’s hair, chasing each pull with the stroke of his hand, drawing it through his part and then smoothing the strands back in place. Quentin’s eyes fell shut, the touch as intimate and lovely as his heart could nearly stand to take. 

“You are beautiful,” Eliot said softly as he continued his work. “I know I say it often– but it’s true.”

Quentin blushed hot under his new collar. “You spoil me.”

Eliot set the brush down gently and lowered himself to a knee, his eyes shining and dark in the dim light. 

“As much as I can, my love.”

They kissed once. Eliot lips had just begun to soften against his when the doorbell rang, signaling that it was time for the party to begin. 

He groaned. “Who’s idea was this party? I’d prefer to just ravage you now.”

Quentin sighed a laugh and then helped Eliot to his feet, clapping him fraternally on the back. 

“Come now, you must meet with your guests, Herr Waugh.”

The party began just as soon as the first guests stepped through the doorway. Eliot greeted them and then they were shown by Todd into the sitting room for before-dinner wine and conversation. Margo—exquisite in a green satin gown that called to mind the cool breezes of a pine forest— did good work making sure Quentin was introduced and intermingled with everyone, even though he felt starkly out of place amidst the ladies in their gleaming satin and the gentleman in their evening gloves. 

“Why Q, I can’t help but notice we nearly match,” Margo murmured as they migrated from one conversation cluster to the next. Quentin looked down, and indeed, the green of Margo’s generous off the shoulder sleeves were nearly indistinguishable from the dark blue velvet he wore. 

“Funny, isn’t it,” she says, the genteel smile of the hostess on her face, “How hard Eliot works to keep the things he cares about in perfect complement, as though we won’t notice his meddling.” 

Quentin looked to Margo in concern, but her expression held nothing but fondness for her husband, and dare Quentin say, for him. Another guest called her away, and left to his own devices again Quentin watched Eliot, a slim dart of black suiting most often the center of a circle of colorfully dressed ladies vying for his attention. Quentin couldn’t blame them; how could one resist such a man of talent and conversation, who also held such open and loving affection for his wife? Quentin had seen first and foremost how a marriage void of mutual affection could leech the happiness from a household, making his childhood home doubly unsuitable for guests as it was for its own residents. 

Eliot sought to create the opposite with his house. He was a beacon of social prowess, engaging with each guest as if they held special interest to him, and in truth they probably did. He made them laugh and gasp and sigh at his many jokes and stories all throughout dinner. 

“Herr Waugh,” said a lady whose puffed sleeves threatened to swallow her entire upper body as she lifted one of the delicately curved wine glasses to her lips. “Tell us of your tour of the German states. Is it true you visited some distinctly rural areas?”

“Why Frau Steiner, you make it sound as if I had carted a piano around on my back through the wilds of Germany,” Eliot joked, drawing titters of laughter from all seated at the long mahogany table as they tucked into their soup.

“We were surprised you decided to take such a provincial tour, especially during the season,” she said in return, still smiling good-naturedly. 

Quentin knew that Vienna’s social season was legendary: six months of winter that included royal and common balls and parties, daily visits and calls, and the cropping up of many an engagement between notable families to secure bloodline and wealth. Quentin would be able to witness it all after the new year in January.

“Yes, well, I don’t think Lady Waugh will ever truly forgive me.” Eliot said, and Margo shook her head, pursing her lips in faux disapproval. “But it was my intention to make sure that even more… rural circumstances are given a fair dose of cosmopolitan culture and music. I was delighted to see that in Leipzig they have taken the cause of music making upon themselves, what with the dear Felix’s appointment as the conductor of Gewandhaus Orchestra.”

They toasted to that, and Quentin stumbled to raise his glass along with the rest of the jolly crowd. 

“But whatever did you do to amuse yourself?” One of the gentlemen asked. 

Quentin tensed, his toes curling inside his shoes. He was sure that if someone had been paying him mind they would see the secret written all over his expression. 

Eliot relaxed in his seat, lifting his glass and toasting it toward Quentin. 

“Herr Coldwater was a model host, once we became properly acquainted,” Eliot said. “He showed me Leipzig’s many charms, didn’t you Quentin?”

Quentin nearly snorted into his soup, setting the spoon down to avoid further danger. 

“Yes, when the weather was agreeable.”

“Too right,” Eliot agreed. 

“I’m sure you two were more immersed in the business of music-making to care much for tourist amusements,” Herr Steiner interjected. “Bringing the professional musician back to the empire is no small feat.”

In truth, without Eliot and Margo present, Quentin would have found such small talk to be fatiguing at best, and downright insufferable at worst. Eliot made certain that he was included in conversation but didn’t pressure him to lead, and Margo beside him padded his answers when needed. It wasn’t as if Quentin was socially inept, but he much preferred to listen, and to watch, enjoying Eliot’s heated gaze as he caught his eye over the rim of his glass. 

Later, they adjourned to the parlor for more wine and coffee, and it was time for someone to raise the question of entertainment.

“Herr Waugh, will you be playing for us tonight?” one of Lady Margo’s friends asked– Fraulein Weiss, Quentin remembered. 

Eliot, who had made his way over to casually sit next to Quentin on the sofa, raised his glass to her. 

“Of course! But only when you least expect it.”

The room laughed at his wit and charm, and Quentin was swept up along with it. He turned, aiming to ask for more wine from Franz– 

“Why Herr Coldwater, do you play?”

Quentin’s mind froze as he realized that Fraulein Weiss was speaking to him. He opened his mouth, ready to offer his usual answer– _I’m afraid not anymore, thank you, I am more than kept busy with my compositions these days, thank you–_ but Eliot spoke first. 

“Of course he plays!” He near shouted. “With the touch of an _angel,_ I might add.”

Quentin nearly bit his tongue in two. 

“You must play for us then,” said the lady, smiling wide in Quetin’s direction. “One of your modern compositions!”

Quentin held up a hand. “Oh– no, I couldn’t possibly–”

“But you must, Herr Coldwater,” Margo said girlishly, a teasing glint in her eye. “Would you disappoint all of these fine people?”

Quentin looked to Eliot for support, which he immediately recognized as a mistake when Eliot grinned like a fox and took him by the shoulders, turning him around and walking him towards the piano. There was a general rustling as the ladies dressed in their wide skirts found a place to sit and the gentleman a place to perch, all turning expectantly towards Quentin. 

“I–” he stuttered, raising a hand to grip the piano. “What would– that is– what would you all care to hear? I believe I know some of Hummel’s variations–”

“Bah– no one wishes to hear Hummel anymore,” one of Eliot’s crass friends said, his face already redder than the wine he held in his hand. 

Quentin’s eyes swam. Suddenly, he was unsure that he even knew how to play the piano at all, let alone something that would impress. His hands were blocks of lead. He tried to recall his once extensive repertoire– there was a time when he could have asked the crowd which of the thirty-two Beethoven Sonatas they were like to hear, but nothing so interesting came to mind. 

His heart beat wildly. He would embarrass himself, and then Eliot would have to make excuses for him to save his own reputation, and Quentin would be a horrible laughingstock and no one would ever publish a single piece of his music again– 

“Quentin,” Eliot said, not far from him. He stood near the piano, his clever eyes now warm and encouraging. “We wish to hear _your_ music, if you would.”

Quentin swallowed, calmed slightly. He was struck by the kindness with which Eliot regarded him, that through their flirtations and banter and lust there was genuine affection between them. No, not only affection, but love. Eliot _loved_ him. Even in their restricted circumstances, he wanted to share that love with others. 

With that thought warming his heart, Quentin smiled.

“I would– be delighted. Of course I will.”

Eliot smiled back, nodding his encouragement. The bench creaked in the quiet as Quentin sat. He lifted his hands, running his fingers over the beautiful black and white keys of Eliot’s parlor piano. It was rarely played, unlike the sturdier instrument in the study used for lessons and practice. Even so, Eliot kept it in peak condition, gleaming and tuned, always ready for an impromptu performance. 

He took a deep breath as he always did, and somewhere deep in his psyche, he remembered how this had once excited him. His [ first notes ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e0kVhtRcis4) sounded on the exhale. 

In his imagination, the first arpeggio of the introduction was confidence, the second a regret, a shying back of a normally reserved personality. He grimaced slightly. The soft octaves of his right hand felt slow, slower than he would like– he would have to tell Eliot that later when he played it– but secure. As he played he felt the eyes of each person in the room, surveying him, judging him. But he also knew that among them was Eliot’s gaze, encouraging him with every bit of his power. Margo as well, her protective instinct centered on him as well now, and she would not wish for him to fail. 

He leaned forward, launching into the second work in the set, feeling some old bravado surge through him to his fingertips. Or was this something entirely new? Had he ever truly felt this bold? This confident?

He couldn’t recall such a time. 

While his _Fantasiestucke_ focused on the changing of the seasons and differing times of day, these were mere _Papillons,_ butterflies that flitted from ecstatic happiness to the deepest sorrows. He had imagined the music as a party, much like the one hosted right now, and Quentin intended for each attendant to shine through. Eliot, with his bravado and charm and impeccable taste in fashion. Lady Margo Waugh, her witty tongue the foundation for all the best humor of the evening. There was Eliot’s agent Pickwick, nervously laughing and mingling all evening with a twinge of social hysteria. There were people he had expected to meet– gossiping ladies and men with a penchant for grandiose bragging about their accomplishments where those same ladies could hear. 

He played until the sixth piece in the set, and was met with enthusiastic applause upon finishing. Blushing, he bowed his head from his seat.

“That was most impressive, Herr Coldwater!” said Fraulein Weiss. “And you nearly denied us it!”

“Modesty in artists will be the death of us all,” another gentleman joked. Everyone laughed again, and Quentin relaxed as some of the spotlight eased off of him. He stood, going to take a seat next to Margo. 

The energy from his performance buzzed under his skin, continuing even as Eliot took to the piano and played a rousing section from his most enigmatic [ concert etude](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M0U73NRSIkw), drawing the gasps and laughter from the room as he added even more flourish than usual. Quentin sat back and enjoyed, wondering how he had become so lucky as to live in the presence of such an artist. 

After finishing, Eliot seamlessly segued into a waltz, and several gentlemen leapt to their feet to take partners and dance. Quentin knew now why Margo had instructed the staff to rearrange the furniture special for tonight. Quentin had seen others dance the waltz, but had never learned the steps himself. Not much reason for an estranged son from a rural estate to learn the newest dance stylings, even though he loved the music that came along with it. 

He found himself near the piano, leaning against it to watch Eliot’s hands and the way he smiled when he saw how much joy he was bringing his guests. 

“I’m sure one of the ladies would appreciate it if you danced,” Eliot said while he played, not missing a beat. “Especially after you broke all of their hearts one at a time with your playing.”

Quentin shrugged, leaning against the wood. Eliot’s parlor piano was beautiful, the legs carved with intricate baroque looking designs and the inside of the cover depicting an idyllic countryside scene. 

“I’m happy right here,” he said, sitting down on a stool next to the bench. 

Eliot made an effort to look disapproving, but Quentin could see the pleased smile once he thought he wasn’t looking. 

The night went on. Quentin managed to work up quite a flush from the wine, his tongue loosening and allowing him to speak more freely. He talked animatedly of several subjects that interested him greatly but usually drew the bored glares of his companions. He was accustomed to only Alice enthusiastically joining in on his discussions of art and philosophy and politics, but _here_ others were not only tolerant of what he had to say, but seemed genuinely engaged.

“Herr Waugh delighted us with a performance of your _Traumes Wirrem_ at court the other day, while we lazed about in his Majesty’s drawing room.” Margo’s cousin, a Lord Hanson of some rank that lived in Vienna, said to him as the evening waxed on. “A true delight, a humble masterpiece, his Majesty called it. I myself had never seen such restrained virtuosity. Not to discount Herr Waugh’s immense talent, but sometimes one likes to hear music of a more whimsical nature, wouldn’t you agree?”

Quentin choked on his wine to think that the Emperor had seen fit to compliment his music, wondering when he had abandoned his once staunch political opinions of a free German state. 

“I think that music of all sorts can find its rightful place,” Quentin said. “Given that fate dictates the right listener to find it.”

Lord Hanson smiled, nodding. “A novel concept, Herr Coldwater.”

Lord Hanson’s wife turned, smiling at Quentin. “Don’t grill the poor man, Rolf. Now, Herr Coldwater, you must promise that you will attend our winter ball in February.”

He tried to remember her name, coming up short. 

“Your ball, my lady?”

She nodded; clearly this was a topic of which she was fond. 

“We _always_ open the season with a ball at our Vienna home. Eliot and Margo have been the life and soul of the event since the start of their marriage.” She lowered her voice dramatically. “I take credit for helping to lift them out of scandal, you know. Not many can resist a handsome young couple in love, especially if the groom can entertain an entire party for hours.”

Quentin nodded, smiling. He had known that Eliot Waugh, court musician, marrying Lady Margo had caused quite a stir amongst the old families of Vienna, but he couldn’t imagine that there had been a time when Eliot had been anything but loved and cherished by the public. Of course, they were somewhat of an oddity, what with Margo only just retaining her title in legacy, but surely Eliot’s fame had more than made up for his lack of birthright?

“Rest assured, I made certain that Eliot would be welcomed, even by the _stuffiest_ of the Viennese aristocracy.” She sat back, opening her fan. She was older than Margo by several years, and possessed a haughtier air despite her friendliness. “But as I was saying, you are more than welcome at our winter ball, after the new year. We need more interesting people at these events.”

“I would be delighted, my lady.”

“Sophia?” Her husband asked, offering his hand to dance. Quentin filed her name away for later reference as she nodded to him politely before joining the other dancers. 

The evening wound down slowly, with guests filtering out soon after Eliot gave the silent signal to Todd to stop serving wine. 

“Did you enjoy yourself?” Eliot asked him as Margo bid the last of their guests goodnight at the parlor door. 

“I did,” Quentin said, smiling softly and leaning against the back of the sofa. “You and Lady Margo are quite the hosts. I can’t believe how you orchestrated this entire evening so seamlessly.”

“And _I_ can’t believe that you composed an entire suite under my nose without my knowing,” Eliot countered. “Were you very angry that I insisted you play?”

Quentin laughed, shaking his head. “At first. But I see now that there was nothing to fear.”

Eliot’s eyes shone with delight. “You shall have to keep me abreast of your compositions in the future, so that I can make requests at times such as these.”

“You have been working so hard at court, you’ve barely asked if I had anything new,” Quentin flirted. “I feel a trifle neglected.”

Eliot leaned his head against his hand, bracing his elbow on the back of the sofa. His other hand reached for his, letting their littlest fingers brush together only slightly.

“I will have to remedy that later,” he said, but then his brow furrowed, as if just realizing something. “I must say– something did seem familiar about your work, something stirred in my memory when I heard it. I couldn’t put my finger on it.”

Quentin leaned forward carefully, the spirits coursing through him giving him some confidence, but not enough to completely forget himself as a few guests lingered at the door for their hats and shawls. 

“I was inspired by our first walk through the Volksgarten,” he said quietly. “The way you gave me flowers and how all the world seemed to flutter around us for the taking. If my _fantasiestucke_ is me then this is you– and Lady Margo as well. The beauty you both have in life.”

Quentin didn’t know what he expected— for Eliot to be pleased, of course, but not to look at him so lovingly, so contentedly. 

At that moment, Margo closed the door to the parlor, and the were alone. Eliot immediately leaned forward, kissing Quentin square on the mouth. 

“Eliot!” Quentin squealed against his lips. 

“I see we are all in a risk-taking mood tonight,” Margo said as she circled back around to the sofa. 

Eliot pulled back with a smack, his face alight with a smile. 

“What is mere risk in comparison with my love.” He stood, taking Quentin’s hand and pulling him to his feet. “Margo, draw the blinds. I must dance with this man.”

Quentin whooped a laugh as Eliot gathered him up in his arms, a token protest already falling from his lips. 

“Eliot, I don’t even know the steps–”

“Come now, if I have to watch you break the hearts of pretty ladies at the next party I’ll have a faint _for them_. I am your mentor, and I was once was a humble stonemason’s son myself, my father even more a stranger to the dances of the court as he was to a bar of soap– making me well-suited to this task!”

“A stonemason?” Quentin asked curiously as Eliot took his waist under one large hand and his right hand with the other. 

Eliot clicked his tongue, arranging their feet. “Now, now, Gentleman Q, don’t turn up your nose. Lady Margo does not care for a _snob_.”

The Lady in question laughed heartily from the sofa. Quentin frowned but allowed himself to be manhandled into the most unnatural position. Eliot led him through the steps and then Lady Margo beat time with her heel as they tried them in practice. He stepped on Eliot’s toes more than once as he fought to lead, but then settled into the following role nicely as he realized what was expected of him. They mastered the box step together, and then Eliot introduced the turns. 

Once he adjusted to it, Quentin did find the dance to be rather intoxicating, what with its heady spins that made the stuffy air of their parlor into sweeping winds. Why had he been so quick to turn down Eliot’s firm hand at his waist and the full weight of his gaze as they danced amongst the sofas?

“That is the first time you’ve mentioned your father,” Quentin found himself saying as Eliot expertly wove him around an end table. “To me, at least.”

A pinch formed between Eliot’s brow. 

“Have I not?” He said, false cheeriness coloring his tone. “Must have slipped my mind, dear. Not much to tell, I’m afraid.”

They nearly tripped over the corner of the oriental rug, and Lady Margo let out a whoop of laughter. 

“Don’t hurt him, Eliot!”

“I would _never_.”

Eliot smiled mischievously at him, his reserved look gone. Quentin wondered if the subject of his father was now closed. 

“Who taught you to dance like this?” Quentin asked as he was spun around, half flirtation and half curiosity. 

Eliot shrugged. Again, a transparent curtain of darkness fell over his face. 

“Oh, you know, some acquaintance. I hope you’re not offended if I tell you that you are not my first lover.”

“Of course I’m not, but who–”

Eliot stopped them, abruptly. Quentin’s head spun as if he were still spinning, and his words stopped in his throat. 

“I’m thirsty,” Eliot said, his gaze landing anywhere but Quentin’s eyes. “Todd! Some wine!”

Todd appeared as if out of thin air with a dark amber bottle and three glasses. 

Quentin took wine with them, listening to gossip about the evening and the guests who had been in attendance. He tried to listen, to laugh at the appropriate parts, but it was as if a dam had opened in Quentin’s mind, spilling forth not answers, but more questions. In Leipzig, it had been all about Quentin. Quentin’s music, his failings, his canceled engagement, his cold mother and dead father… he wracked his brain. Had Quentin ever truly asked Eliot anything about his life?

Eliot laughed and talked with Lady Margo now, drinking more wine from a bottle set between them. He was the very picture of natural elegance and opulence– not Gentry, but the son of some upper-crust Hungarian merchants, Quentin had assumed. Not gentry, but not... a stonemason’s son, Eliot had said. How had a stonemason’s son found fame and fortune in the Emperor’s court?

“Quentin, come sit on my lap! Lady Margo says that I have been ignoring you in favor of evil gossip!”

Quentin hadn’t realized that he had drifted across the room to look out the window. Outside, the streets were empty and quiet. 

“Coming,” he called, returning to the sofa where they sat. 

Eliot did pull him onto his lap, drawing a laugh from Quentin and stopping it with a kiss. He kissed with a smile, and looked at Quentin like he hung the stars. Guilt settled in Quentin’s stomach, distracting him from the lightness he had felt all evening long. 

  
Who _was_ Eliot Waugh?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of historical notes:
> 
> 'Hausmusik' was a new concept in the early 19th century, or music composed specifically for home entertainment. This came to be because after Mozart died, there was a bit of a low point of professional musicians in Austria/Germany. Then Beethoven came and was a God among music, but when he died in 1827 he had no student or obvious successor. Instead, there were hundreds of virtuosos and shallow composers that really had no longevity (I mentioned Hummel here, who in my opinion is one of those composers, but not everyone agrees with me haha). The time of this story (1836) is when things really started to pick up again, and all the sudden musicians were becoming professional again. The "Felix" mentioned during the party is Felix Mendelssohn, a very important composer who was the leader of the Gewandhaus orchestra for a few years and brought it to new heights. Basically, this was a turning point. Hausmusik wasn't really looked down upon, but Quentin (along with a bunch of other composers at the time) is looking to be crowned the next Beethoven. In all reality, this didn't happen until much later, with Brahms. 
> 
> We hope you enjoyed this installment and the music in this chapter! Your feedback means the world to us, let us know what you think by dropping us a comment if you can!


	11. Chapter 11

Eliot hummed quietly to himself as Todd assisted him in dressing, handing him his best linen shirt and then a pair of dark evening trousers. It had been a long day at court, and he was in part still recovering from their own excellent party two days prior. Margo had received multiple letters and calls from their guests to tell them just how _lovely_ of a time they had, and how _charming_ and _talented_ Eliot’s new compositional student was. 

“Would you care for the solid plum waistcoat this evening, sir?” 

Eliot eyed the deep purple garment Todd held in his hands. “Yes, I believe that will do nicely. Autumn is almost upon us, is it not Todd?”

“Indeed it is, sir. Time passes so quickly these days.”

They had a social obligation tonight, some second cousin of Margo’s father who was in town and staying with other distant relations. Eliot sighed as he tied his cravat. It would be a rather boring affair, just a dinner and brandy afterwards with no lively or interesting people to conversate with, but with marriage came sacrifice. 

From downstairs, he heard the front door shut and a pair of quick feet making their way up the stairs and down the hallway. 

“Todd, is that Herr Coldwater?”

“I believe so, sir.”

“Would you please give him the package that came for him? I left it on the table in the hallway. Near the lamp.”

“Of course, sir.”

Todd left to retrieve and deliver the package and Eliot turned back to the mirror, setting to work on the buttons of his waistcoat. 

The package had arrived that afternoon, while Quentin had taken a walk to the cafe to meet with some academic acquaintances he had made since arriving in Vienna. Eliot had felt the weight of it in his hands, the excitement, and had been waiting patiently for Quentin to get home so that he could share the good news. 

Satisfied with his appearance, he tugged his dinner jacket on and set off for Quentin’s room. 

He stopped once he saw Quentin sitting on the bed, frowning and holding a stack of long papers. Eliot recognized the typeset: it was indeed a publishers mock-up as he had thought. 

“I saw that it had arrived this afternoon,” Eliot said by way of hello, sitting beside him to take a look. “I had to stop myself from sending you a letter at the cafe to come home at once.”

Quentin did not smile, or react in any large way. He looked exhausted, as if he had not slept, and dark circles sat heavy underneath his eyes. 

“Are you alright, my love?” Eliot asked, laying a hand on Quentin’s shoulder. 

Quentin looked up finally, eyes a little wider now as if he had just noticed that Eliot was there. 

“I’m sorry,” he stuttered. “I– I’m merely in disbelief. And confused.”

He handed Eliot the manuscript. He squinted down at the typeset writing. 

_Fantasiestucke: A collection of characteristic works for the pianoforte by Quentin Coldwater._

“How wonderful,” Eliot said, smiling and clapping Quentin on the shoulder. “You must be proud. Your first Viennese publication.”

Quentin’s brow furrowed. “You seem unsurprised. Herr Bauer… he published it as a set in its completion.”

Eliot sat up a little taller. “I should think he did. It was the only true course of action. Are you not satisfied with the layout?”

Quentin shook his head. “The layout is perfect. I just don’t understand how he procured the rest of the suite. He gave it back to me day he decided to only publish the three works separately.”

“Well I,” Eliot started, swallowing uncomfortably. “I may have gone to see Bauer myself. Now– it was only because I thought he had made a terrible mistake. Your _Fantasiestucke_ must be published as a set, or else it would do a great disservice to the work.”

Quentin blinked, looking up at him finally. “You spoke to him on my behalf?”

“I did,” Eliot said, fiddling with his gloves in his lap. “...are you angry?”

Quentin looked away, back down at the smooth paper with his name embossed in bold, black letters. It wasn’t Quentin’s first publication– he had told Eliot that a few isolated pieces of his had been published in Heidelberg, but never a completed set. Never something that could make an _impact._

“I only wished for your beautiful music to be received by the public in its truest form,” Eliot entreated. “And for you to be happy, I confess.”

Quentin ran his fingers over the cover page, his expression indecipherable. Finally, he looked up.

“I am happy,” he said quietly, setting the papers aside and taking Eliot’s hand between his own. “Thank you, Eliot.”

Eliot smiled wide, letting out a relieved exhale as Quentin leaned forward to kiss him softly on the lips. 

“We should celebrate,” Eliot said in between kisses. “Margo and I must show our faces at this event, but afterwards…” he trailed a hand down Quentin’s back, cupping his waist. “I will show just how proud I am of your accomplishments.”

Quentin smiled, responding to his flirtations in the manner he usually did, but Eliot couldn’t help but worry on through dinner. Margo’s boring relations often looked to him to liven up the conversation, his reputation for eccentricities obviously preceding him. Eliot Waugh– the life and soul of any party, boring or otherwise. There even was a serviceable piano that Margo kept nudging him to play. He ignored the pointed suggestion, unable to deny his nervous thoughts. 

When he returned home, Quentin was fast asleep. He crawled into bed beside him, but still felt a thousand miles away.

Breakfast the next morning was another tense affair. Quentin rose uncharacteristically early, and was the first at the table. Always one to fixate and obsess, he had a folio of half-full manuscript paper flat against the table next to his plate of untouched food, his pen a flurry of movement across the page. He barely looked up from his work as Eliot entered. 

“Good morning, dear,” Eliot said. 

Quentin didn’t look up. 

“Good morning,” Margo said, her mood chipper as she entered the room behind Eliot in a gorgeous red printed day dress. She took her seat across from Quentin. “How is everyone today?”

Quentin finally looked up as Eliot took his seat, blinking once. 

“I’m sorry, my lady, I didn’t hear you enter.” He set his pen aside and began to gather his papers in a somewhat neat pile. 

“Don’t fret,” Margo said, ever so gentle with Quentin. “What draws your eye so early in the morning?”

Quentin finally looked toward Eliot, meeting his eyes and quickly looking away. Eliot frowned. 

“Something new,” Quentin said, turning his attention back to Margo. “I’m afraid it will require a lot of work.”

“Tell us about it, if you can,” Eliot offered, feeling left out from the conversation and deprived of Quentin’s gaze. He reached for the coffee, first refilling Quentin’s cup and then his own. “I thought you would be consumed with editing your gorgeous _Papillons.”_

“They do not need quite as much refining as I had previously thought,” Quentin said, taking the mug between his hands but not drinking. “I thought turning my attention to something new might be wise. Something different from small forms.”

“You have us on the edge of our seats, Quentin,” Margo said, scooping jam out of a white ceramic bowl. “Do tell.”

Quentin took a sip of coffee. Stalling, Eliot recognized it. 

“It’s a concerto,” he said. “Not nearly finished yet.” 

Eliot smiled. He reached out, intending to take a look at the sketches, but Quentin quickly closed the folio, blocking them from his view. 

“It’s not ready yet,” he said, functionally repeating himself.

Eliot froze, his hand floating in midair. He drew it back, taking his fork in hand instead. 

“Ah,” he said, trying to keep his smile intact. 

“That’s terribly exciting, though,” Margo interjected. “Eliot, when was the last time you performed a concerto? Was it in London last year?”

“I believe so,” Eliot said flippantly. “And it is exciting. How long have you been working on it?”

“Only a few days.”

Eliot eyed the stack of papers bulging out of Quentin’s folio. 

“Only a few days?”

Quentin side-eyed him but didn’t honor his question with a reply. He looked sullen, his expression pinched and annoyed. 

“Well,” Eliot started, keeping his casual tone and reaching for the salt. “Should you need help orchestrating I would be glad to—“

Quentin slammed his hand on the table. 

“And _why_ would I be incapable of orchestrating my own concerto?”

Eliot pursed his lips. Margo froze, her fork halfway to her mouth. She met Eliot’s eyes, frowning. Confused. Worried. 

“I was going to say that should you need help orchestrating I know a wonderful violinist from court who I’m sure would love to try out any parts you wrote.” Eliot rose, his chair scraping loudly across the floor. He leaned down, kissing Margo on the temple. “If you both would excuse me–”

He dropped his napkin on the table and left the room, hearing a muttered “Shit” and “Forgive me, my lady” before Quentin’s footsteps followed his. 

“Eliot–”

“I have a rather busy day at court, I trust you will let Margo know that I might be late for dinner.”

“Eliot.“ Quentin said over his shoulder. “Just stop– listen–”

Quentin caught up to him at the front door, grabbing his hand and pulling until Eliot turned around. His expression was pained, the pinched and annoyed look gone, replaced with agonized guilt. 

“I’m sorry, I should not have spoken to you so coarsely.” 

Eliot plastered a smile on his face. “I know not what you mean, my love, but whatever it is, I forgive you for it.” He leaned in, placing a kiss to Quentin’s forehead, similar to the one he gave Margo. “I hope you have a nice day– try to get out into the sunshine.”

Quentin squeezed his hand, swallowing hard. “I...alright, then. I wish you a pleasant day.”

Eliot grabbed his top hat from the stand and slipped his other hand from Quentin’s to place it upon his head. Quentin watched him going from the doorway, and Eliot offered one last wave before turning wholeheartedly in the direction of the palace. 

He tried his hardest to concentrate on his work, but his days at court were treacherously long and boring when he was in good spirits, and nearly killing him when his mind was elsewhere. The emperor, though very fond of Eliot and his music, was rarely well enough to receive him. This forced him to earn his meager stipend by giving lessons twice a week to seemingly every simpering member of the gentry that wished to boast that they were trained by _the_ Eliot Waugh. 

“That’s wonderful, Lady Haas, simply inspired,” he said, eyelids at half-mast as the doe-eyed teenager plucked out the same Scarlatti sonata she had been working on for over a year now. “I only wish I could hear more strength of tone. Some confidence, perhaps?”

It was all Lady Haas could do to not look completely scandalized. She was a quiet thing, her family a very old and particularly conservative one in Emperor’s court. Eliot had been surprised when her father had brought her to be taught by such a rogue as he, but he supposed he was a respectable married man now. 

“C-confidence?” She twisted her hands in her lap. “Father doesn’t care for me to play too loudly.”

“Hmm,” Eliot considered, already annoyed with Earl Haas from the last court ball when he had splashed wine on Eliot’s favorite silk waistcoat. “Well, what if we don’t inform him that you are playing loudly in my office?”

She covered her mouth as she giggled. “I suppose he can’t hear us here.”

“That’s the spirit.” Eliot adjusted his jacket, sitting beside the young lady on the wide piano bench made for such a purpose. “Now, I say we should give old Scarlatti a break. He’s rather tired.” She laughed again. “How about a Mozart duet? With you on the Primo part I should think even your father would enjoy it.”

He had a nice time with Lady Haas, but even as they worked their way through his large book of duets, laughing through mistakes, he still felt the weight of Quentin’s mood from the morning. 

As he walked home, his shoulders tired from being at the piano and a dull ache in his head from talking and advising, Eliot struggled to understand why a kind word or simple jest hadn’t cheered Quentin that morning. Why had the very idea of a concerto filled him with such dread and insecurity that he would think Eliot his enemy, even for a moment? 

Even after arriving home and joining Margo in the luxurious surroundings of their custom designed bathing room, Eliot felt morose. 

“If you must sulk then you might as well do it in the bath with me,” Margo said, tipping back letting one her feet breach the surface of the water. 

Eliot harrumphed very inelegantly, rising and slipping his robe from his shoulders. 

“I am still so confused at Quentin’s outburst.”

“What?” Margo said as he gingerly sank down into the tub. “Did you think he would always be pleasant and never ornery? You are living with him, you must expect that his moods will fluctuate.”

Eliot looked down, speaking quietly as he stretched out his legs in the warm water. “He’s been ornery before. Just not to me.”

“I don’t mean to sound insensitive,” Margo said, handing him a wine glass filled close to the brim. One of these days he would have to examine their dependence on drink. “But he did immediately apologize. It’s not as if he stormed off in a huff. Why, you and I have fought much more epically than that.”

“Yes, but we have vows between us, my love,” Eliot insisted. “Quentin has taken no such vow to me.”

Margo shrugged. “Our vows are sacred to me, but Quentin has no option to make them. In his heart, to be sure, but not in front of God and witnesses, as we did. How could you hold him to the same standard?”

“Quentin does have the option,” Eliot said softly. He took a sip of wine, letting the rich liquid sit on his tongue before swallowing. “He could marry, and have a full marriage, if what he told me is true about his past affairs with women.”

When he looked up, Margo was staring at him with her eyebrows furrowed. 

“But he won’t,” she said, strangely, as if it were a question. “Forgive me, Eliot, I know he _could._ But I don’t believe he will, because he is with you, as of right now.” 

Eliot laughed, as if it were obvious. “Of course, I’m only talking.”

“You’re never only talking,” Margo muttered as she took a sip from her own glass. “If you truly want my advice, you should go to him and see what the issue actually was. He’s not one to deny his feelings, if he was he would not have shown his anger at all. I’m sure he would talk freely to you if you were to ask.”

Eliot sank deeper into the water, considering her advice. Margo didn’t press him, instead she examined her nailbeds as if they held all the secrets of the world. 

“This is nice,” Eliot mused, needing a subject change. “I feel that we haven’t spent enough time together, as of late.”

Margo pursed her lips forward, running her tongue over her teeth. She didn’t look up. 

“We’ve been so busy with Quentin getting settled and then the party… I haven’t been to our marriage bed once.”

“Have you not? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Margo.”

She looked up, raising her eyebrows. 

“Have you felt neglected, my queen?” He asked softly. 

She hummed noncommittally, and he took her ankle in between his hands and set her foot upon his lifted knee. He kneaded his thumbs into the arch, and she shivered. 

“Does that feel good?” He whispered. 

Her head tipped back and her lips parted as he pressed firmly into the arch of her foot. He labored without hurry, pulling the tension from Margo’s feet and the muscles of her finely haired calves. When Margo was little more than a puddle of relaxation Eliot moved, shifting in the water until he laid back on Margo’s side, lifting her slightly to sit across his lap. Margo rolled her head onto his shoulder as he settled his arms around her middle. Thus arranged, Eliot pressed a few kisses to his wife’s throat, humming his pleasure at the simple intimacy between them. It was a special kind of bliss, the curve of her breasts brushing his forearm and one of her hands reaching up to play with the damp curls at the back of his neck. 

In his moments of self awareness, Eliot had realized that whether through his god given nature or the nature of his upbringing, he was a man who hungered for touch more than most. He lived now in a time of plenty. Between his wife and his lover Eliot feasted on the tender contact he craved, but famine always loomed like a distant thundercloud. He could never forget for a moment how lucky he was to be loved by Margo, and to have her wish to share such closeness with him even if it wasn’t strictly carnal in nature.

Bearing in mind such thoughts, Eliot bent his head to nose at the shell of Margo’s ear. 

“Tell me, my love, how you would like to be touched,” he murmured, “And your husband shall make it so.”

Margo tipped her chin up to accept his kiss on her lips, though she raised one eyebrow. 

“I do hope you’re not using me to forget your nerves over Quentin.”

Eliot sighed against her skin. “Can’t a man seek to pleasure his wife without her questioning if his motives relate to his lover?”

She laughed once, finally breaking her skeptic expression. “I don’t believe our experiences are widespread enough to test that theory. Now take me to bed, Herr Waugh.”

She allowed him to help her out of the tub, and he carried her to the bed and dropped her in the sheets, bath oil and water still beading on their skin as they kissed languidly. The room was warm but breezy from the open window as he knelt between her thighs. 

Margo was different from Quentin, Eliot mused as he started to work his mouth against her center. Quentin babbled and writhed under the touch of his hands, always in disbelief that he could feel so good. His orgasms came as a surprise, Eliot’s name falling from his lips like water. 

Margo was solid and tense as she received pleasure, her hands twisting in his hair and her moans low and full. She rarely asked for this, content to wait until Eliot offered. But when he did, she took. 

“Ah— use your fingers—“ she said, pressing herself closer to his face, greedy. Eliot smiled, tasting the salt of her on his lips. Her hands fell away from his hair, dropping beside her head on the pillows. He lifted her legs, pressing his forearm behind her knees to better bare her to him. He acquiesced to her request, sinking a finger into her folds. 

She arched her back as he added another finger and started to fuck into her, building a rhythm and bringing his mouth back to work at her clit. He began to suck lightly, and she met each thrust of his fingers with a roll of her hips. 

They were in sync, and Eliot felt something like bliss. He could do this; he could make his wife feel good. Among so much that was uncertain, this was an absolute. 

She moaned low and rough as she came, spasming against his fingers and shuddering against him. Eliot worked until she was trembling, but somewhere in another world, he was conscious of the door opening and shutting downstairs, the muffled rumbles of Quentin and Todd’s voices. 

Careful, Eliot slipped his fingers free, the way easy with the slickness of Margo’s climax. He placed a final kiss to the bud of her sex, then made his lazy way up her belly and chest, worshipping every sensitive bit of skin he happened upon. He played his thumbs briefly over her nipples, knowing how that held the power to prolong the last shivers of ecstasy. 

“Well, Frau Waugh?” He inquired when they lay skin to skin and face to face, his cock soft against her thigh and a lock of her hair twining through his fingers. “Have I performed ably?”

“Don’t fish for compliments, Eliot,” she scolded him, smiling as he kissed her. “You know it was masterful.” 

“I only like to hear it from your lips, darling,” he replied, curling around her smaller form on the bed. They would need to think about their nightclothes soon, though it wouldn’t be the first time he and Margo had laid bare in their marriage bed just to enjoy being allowed. 

“Ah ah,” Margo objected, however, when Eliot moved to set his arm around her. “Don’t get comfortable. I’m banishing you.” 

“What?” Margo rolled onto her side to give Eliot a pointed look. He pouted. “I clearly did not pleasure you to maximum satisfaction, if this is my reward.” 

Margo rolled her eyes.

“Your wife has been more than placated,” she assured him, kissing Eliot chastely. “But now you must go and make things up with Quentin, lest either of you sleep on your anxieties.”

Eliot nuzzled into the curve of Margo’s shoulder, exhaling loudly through his nose.

“As always, Bambi, you are too wise in these matters.”

“I know. Now slip on that silk robe Idri gifted you from our last New Year in St. Petersburg. Dear Q will hardly be able to stay on his feet at the sight.” 

So barred from his marriage bed, Eliot slipped on the suggested robe with only a half serious grumble. Margo had put him in quite the situation now, he mused as he tied the robe to allow the bare minimum of modesty, brushing the pads of his fingers fondly over the embroidered birds of paradise. If he was not sleeping with his wife, he had no choice but to go to Quentin, or he would be forced to admit there was a reason for his avoiding him. Eliot’s previous intention of simply never mentioning their little domestic again and emerging cheerful and ignorant in the morning has now been dashed.

“Goodnight, my darling,” he whispered, leaning over the bed to kiss Margo one last time. “Wish me luck.” 

Margo accepted his kiss before practically swatting him away, already half seduced to the realm of slumber. So ensconced in her velvet comforter as to be nearly formless, Eliot felt a profound throb of love for his dear wife. He savored that emotion, then set his shoulders and went about locating his beloved Q. 

He did not have to search for very long. Eliot slipped out into the hall to find Quentin at the top of the stairs, still fully dressed. He looked well in his dove gray wool and a soft blue waistcoat, but as he drew near Eliot could see the shadows under his eyes. 

“Eliot,” Quentin breathed with something like relief in his voice.

“Q,” Eliot answered fondly. “I was just about to come to you.”

“And I you.” Quentin stepped forward eagerly. “That is, I _was_ , but Todd said you were with your wife, and I didn’t want to disturb—”

“Q.” Eliot repeated the endearment, and set his hands on Quentin’s shoulders, encouraging him to exhale. 

“I mean that I’m glad to see you,” Quentin concluded, setting the loop of his fingers tenderly around Eliot’s wrist. 

“I’m glad too,” Eliot replied. “It was a long day at court, and I missed your company dearly.” 

Eliot bent down to kiss him, as was his habit, and it wasn’t until Quentin made a surprised sound against his parted lips that he realized perhaps he ought to have washed his face before leaving Margo’s chambers.

Well, Quentin must have been a generous lover to his Fraulein Quinn, to have recognized the taste. They parted, and Quentin pressed a hand to his lips, his brows high on his face.

“Forgive me, I didn’t think,” Eliot said, only a tad embarrassed.

“Don’t apologize—I mean, that is to say, um, I didn’t realize—“

The sight of his blushing, stammering Q somehow put Eliot at ease, and he took Quentin’s face in his hands to kiss him chastely once more. 

“My wife’s happiness is very important to me, Quentin.” 

Quentin’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. 

“As it should be,” he agreed, a touch breathless.

Eliot brushed his thumb over Quentin’s chin, strangely pleased, before releasing him. 

“Still dressed, are we?” he asked. “I did not think you so much of a night owl as of late.” 

“No,” Quentin admitted. “I found myself a bit restless tonight. Unable to think of sleep. I tried writing a bit, but it hasn’t been fruitful.” 

Eliot knew then that Margo had been right to send him out. However trivial, Quentin’s outburst— and no doubt Eliot’s rash response— was still weighing on him. 

“I thought I might have some tea,” he continued, glancing up at Eliot uncertainly, “If you wanted to join me.” 

Eliot set a graceful smile at his lips, and tucked his arm into Quentin’s elbow. 

“Some tea sounds lovely,” he agreed, relieved to see Quentin smile softly in return. “Shall we take it in my study? I can ring Todd and—” 

“Oh, don’t bother him, he was just headed down to do the ironing,” Quentin said, shaking his head as he guided Eliot towards the stairs. “Let’s have an adventure and fetch a tray ourselves.” 

Eliot squeezed Quentin’s elbow, though he followed obediently. 

“What a wild bohemian you are.” 

Quentin offered him a wry glance as they descended towards the kitchens. 

“You are kind to indulge me,” he said, patting Eliot’s hand.

The way to the kitchen— and by extension, the servants quarters— was not a path Eliot often walked, but Quentin seemed to know it well. Another staircase down from the ground floor, this one far less grand, found them in front of a plain and solid oak door. From the other side the low murmur of voices could be heard. Clearly the whole house was not yet asleep. 

Quentin stopped Eliot before he could knock. Instead he set him a few steps back and indicated he should wait. 

“I get the feeling your servants are not accustomed to their employer bursting into their realm. Besides, you look terribly handsome in this,” Quentin explained, fingering the collar of Eliot’s robe, “But I fear the lack of modesty may give your cook a heart attack.”

Eliot caught Quentin‘s hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. 

“I don’t know, darling, I think Frau Schiller is made of heartier stock than that.” 

Quentin tugged on the tie of Eliot’s meagre attire to steer him into a kiss.

“Then let us pretend I’m a jealous man, who would like to keep the image of you in this garment to himself tonight.” 

Eliot let himself be kissed again, teasing Quentin’s tongue with his own before parting with a shiver. 

“As you like, then.” 

With one last nearly chaste kiss, Eliot allowed Quentin to slip away, knocking softly on the door before pulling it open just enough to step into the kitchen. Eliot could hear the exchange that followed easily enough. Eliot did not hear the voice of his cook often, but he recognized the voice of Frau Schiller well enough from their time spent planning the courses for the numerous dinner parties he and Margo had held over the years. 

“Herr Coldwater, how do you do? I wondered if we might see you tonight.”

“Good evening, Frau Schiller, I hoped that I might trouble you—”

Their conversation was interrupted by the scrape of a chair, and Eliot missed the stammering greeting of his footman. The poor boy was just so eager to serve, and dear Quentin so resistant.

“Do sit down, Franz,” he heard Frau Schiller scold in that motherly tone that seemed exclusive to cooks. “The man is just here for a spot of tea.” 

“Ah, just so, madame,” Quentin replied, “If you aren’t too busy—”

“Don’t be silly, dear. The kettle is already on; it will be the work of a moment. Up late composing?”

“Alas, no, but I have been thinking of a new series…”

Eliot listened to the clink and clatter of china as Frau Schiller set about a tea service and listened to Quentin’s latest ideas. Apparently, she held the _Papillons_ in high esteem, having heard them come to fruition from the kitchen over the last several months’ worth of afternoons while Margo and Eliot had been on their ritual strolls. Besides that, she seemed to hold ‘Herr Coldwater’ in high esteem, which Eliot found dreadfully charming. 

“We had a bit of walnut cake leftover, I thought you might like a slice—“

Quentin’s voice was colored with the country humility which had endeared Eliot from the start. “Really, Frau Schiller, you’re too kind.”

“Nonsense, sir, it’s just a little something I whipped up, and you could still stand a few more square meals, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“As long as it’s your cooking, madame, I’ll be thrilled to put on a few more ounces.” 

“Aren’t you a dear. Now is it just the one cup tonight or might you have Herr Waugh with you upstairs?”

Eliot started at the sound of his name, but Quentin merely laughed. 

“Two cups, please.” 

“Lovely. You won’t mind me saying that we’re all just tickled to see Herr Waugh settled with a sweetheart. Not that he and Lady Waugh don’t still dote on each other like newlyweds!”

Eliot warred with terror and fondness, to hear Frau Schiller speak of their affair so baldly. What a house he and Margo had made, to be so safe that the cook speaks charitably of Eliot’s love for other men. 

“We are very lucky to have you all,” Quentin said, “Given our...eccentricities.”

“Now, now, we must all live as God made us, Herr Coldwater,” declared Frau Schiller. “There you are. Tea for two. Just leave the tray and Irina will bring it down when she does the fireplace in the morning.”

“As you say, Frau Schiller. Do wish everyone a pleasant night from me.” 

With only a few more pleasantries, Quentin was able to make his escape.

“I can see now why your landlady favored you,” Eliot said as he emerged back through the door with a small tea tray. 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Quentin replied, though he smiled.

“You’re just terribly sweet, my love.”

“It’s Frau Schiller I find sweet,” Quentin disagreed. “You must have heard her speak of us, just now.” 

Eliot set his hand to the small of Quentin’s back as they made their way back up the narrow staircase. 

“Indeed,” he agreed. “If all Christians could look upon us so generously, I daresay the world would be a warmer place for men like us.” 

“And yet you and Lady Margo have managed to carve out such a paradise.” 

“We do not forget our good fortune, dearheart, believe me.”

Quentin waited for Eliot at the top of the stairs, and they stepped lightly together into the sitting room. The summer heat had lately broken, so it was cool enough in the dark sitting room for Eliot to stoke a bit of a fire in the hearth under the mantelpiece. That and a single lamp was light enough, the dim glow feeling intimate and close in the grand space. 

“Now this does remind me of Leipzig,” Eliot said as they spread out on the thick Oriental rug in front of the fireplace. 

“A touch more luxury, I think, between your decorating tastes and Frau Schiller’s baking,” Quentin argued. Eliot laughed. 

“That is true.”

Quentin poured them both a cup of weak black tea— a lump of sugar in Eliot’s, as he favored it— and they shared a single fork between them as they enjoyed the slice of cake. They passed easy small talk back and forth, nothing more volatile than the events of the day. Eliot shared his adventure with the young Lady Haas, Quentin a few of the more infantile arguments offered by the political students that afternoon in the cafe. Frau Schiller had aided them both in providing a peace offering, it seemed. A simple slice of cake to remind Eliot of his fondness for Quentin, regardless of his mood. A simple cup of tea giving Quentin time to work up to revealing what was truly at the root of today’s issue.

“I had a letter from Julia,” Quentin revealed, after some time of conversation. They were still sat across from each other on the rug, like boys. Eliot leaned against the sofa for comfort, while Quentin sat up straight, as though he were a monk doing penance.

“We’ve been writing, a little,” he continued. “I’ve been trying to—well—mend fences I suppose.”

“You don’t sound so glad about that as you might,” Eliot guessed. Quentin sighed. 

“I am glad. We were— are—very dear friends, and I can see now that much of our supposed falling out stemmed from my own insecurities…but.” Quentin attempted to blow a strand of hair out of his eyes and when he failed Eliot leaned forward to tuck it back for him, enjoying the silken slip against his fingers while Quentin worked his way to his next thought. 

“I think in many ways Julia still sees me as the boy I was, cowed by Reynard’s bullying. She thinks I reach too far.” 

Ah. “You wrote to her of your concerto.” 

“‘A concerto? Are you sure? Are you comfortable composing for all the instruments?’” Quentin’s impression of Fraulein Wicker was more charitable than the expression of misery on his face led Eliot to expect. 

“It is as though I haven’t changed at all since we last studied together,” he continued, “As though she thinks I have not made an effort to improve myself. As though I am not here, with _you_ , and learning every day for it.” 

Quentin bit his lip, and Eliot saw in the flick of his gaze a frantic edge, the manic cousin of Quentin’s melancholia which had so far failed to follow them from Leipzig. 

“But I once trusted her, to be truthful with me when others sought to flatter,” Quentin sighed, “And so I am left uncertain. Perhaps I have grown arrogant, with the promise of even modest success. With the _Fantasiestucke_ published—though that was your doing, not mine—” 

“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that,” Eliot interjected. “No amount of bullying from me would convince Bauer to publish a subpar work.” 

Quentin frowned but otherwise did not acknowledge that Eliot had spoken. “— but the _Papillons_ , they were well received at the party, yes? The audience did not merely tolerate me for your sake?” 

“I am certain dear Fraulein Wicker did not intend such an ill effect, but I do hate that her words have made you feel so low,” Eliot murmured. Surely if Julia Wicker were as dear a friend as Quentin claimed, she would know better than to set such a flame of doubt to Quentin’s slowly blossoming confidence.

“Eliot, please.” 

“Every last guest was enchanted,” Eliot assured him, “Margo has received a dozen notes already, asking when and where you might play again, and none of it to do with me.” Eliot pressed a kiss to the top of Quentin’s head. “I merely provided a fashionable sitting room.” 

“You did much more than that,” Quentin insisted, though Eliot was relieved to see his shoulders drop. “But thank you.” 

Quentin drained his cup, and set the bit of china back on the tray.

“I _am_ sorry that I snapped at you,” he said next. “And I would very much like to meet your violinist colleague, if you’re still willing to introduce me. I do need help, with or without my pride.”

Eliot greatly disliked how Quentin cast his gaze to the carpet at their feet, as though he still expected Eliot to be angry, or to refuse him help. He tipped Quentin’s chin up with a gentle touch. 

“Of course I am, my love,” Eliot assured him, “And as for your apologies, they were already given and accepted. I promise, any further gestures would only put me in your debt.” 

Quentin sighed with a relief that made Eliot’s heart ache. He did not like to dwell on which parent or past lover must have made Quentin work so hard for forgiveness. Eliot set down his own cup and raised his arm, welcoming Quentin to recline against the sofa with him. So invited, Quentin moved close and laid his head on Eliot’s shoulder, nosing into the silk of Eliot’s collar. His fingers brushed absently through the coarse hair on Eliot’s chest. It was one of Quentin’s more intimate habits, and one of Eliot’s favorites. It was always pleasant to be reminded that Quentin favored Eliot’s masculine elements, whatever affairs with women he might have also enjoyed in the past. 

“I am most relieved to be forgiven.”

“It is as I said, darling, there is nothing to forgive.” 

Quentin glanced up at him, knowing. “That was not the case this morning.” 

Eliot pursed his lips, caught in his charade from after breakfast. “No,” he admitted, “I was...taken aback. Only because we have never encountered each other in an ill mood before today.”

“But!” he continued, before the corners of Quentin’s mouth could turn down, “Margo put me in the bath and made me hear reason. While it may seem at times that you are an angel sent from heaven itself—”

That made Quentin smile, somewhat ruefully. 

“—I know that you are a mortal man, my dear Q,” Eliot concluded, “And while I wish for your happiness always, you are entitled to be irritable before you’ve had your coffee if that is your prerogative. Or to be upset when those you hold dear seem to doubt you.”

“I’m relieved to hear of your newfound realizations of my fallibility.” Quentin wove their fingers together in Eliot’s lap. “And I shall endeavor to have more faith, whatever stumbles may yet await me.”

There was some time of soft silence, but for the crackling of log in the fireplace. The warmth of the flames had a lovely sedative effect, as did Quentin’s sleepy weight laid against Eliot’s chest. Eliot had thought that with their worries settled things might take a more amorous turn between them but this was somehow even more precious. The hour was late, and Quentin seemed quite tired after a day spent worrying over Eliot’s tolerance (If only he could give him those hours back! As if there would be any limits to Eliot’s love). Despite the interruption of a yawn Quentin still pursed his lips, his thumb brushing back and forth over Eliot’s knuckles in the repetitive manner that told him his companion still had thoughts left to voice.

“I hope you know it’s mutual, Eliot.”

Eliot blinked, the lull of the warm air pulling him half to sleep himself. 

“What’s that, love?” 

“You are a human being as much as I am,” Quentin explained, charming in his lethargic solemnity. “I promise I will not pretend surprise should you ever feel the need to express a negative emotion.”

“Hm...thank you, dear,” Eliot said, eyes still on the flickering fire in the brazier, “But I decided long ago that you will only see the best of me. Margo shall have to deal with the rest.”

Quentin laughed softly as though Eliot had made a great joke, and Eliot hid his bemusement in a kiss to his lover’s soft hair. 

“I look forward to forgiving you for your difficult moods, _mein_ _herz_ ,” Quentin said sleepily, pressing his lips to the base of Eliot’s throat, “Should you ever choose to bestow them upon me.”

What a lovely, bizarre man, Eliot mused as he enjoyed the silent little opera that was Quentin falling asleep. His eyelids fluttered closed, and his brow settled into a soft furrow. Always a slight frown appeared at his lips, as though he completed a challenging sum in his dreams. 

Eliot settled himself as best he could, for the time being. He would have an ungodly crick in his neck, come morning, but it would be worth it to doze for an hour with his beloved in his arms. Quentin— comfortable with his nose tucked into Eliot’s throat— would never have to know. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those wondering:  
> A concerto is a large musical work that features a solo instrument accompanied by a full orchestra. Concertos are usually very flashy for the soloist. Notable piano concertos include: the Mozart concerto in A minor, Rachmaninov’s second concerto, and Beethoven’s “Emperor” concerto. For other instruments there is also the Mendelssohn violin concerto and the Elgar cello concerto for further listening. Next week you will get to hear Quentin’s concerto for real!
> 
> More to come soon! Our thanks to all our faithful readers as always. Your support means the world to us, and we treasure every kudos and comment!


	12. Chapter 12

Quentin rapped his knuckles against the tall painted door. 

“Why don’t you try the door knocker, dear?” Eliot mused beside him, looking like a mural of effortless elegance in light aubergine wool and his hands clasped behind his back. Quentin, by comparison, looked harried and windswept, papers nearly spilling from his folio and his hair rapidly escaping the knot at the base of his neck. There was an odd crease in his collar but of course he had been too awkward to mention it to Franz, who was trying his best.

Quentin glared at Eliot but stowed the folio under his arm and grasped the door knocker all the same, hitting it three times against the metal mechanism. 

There was a muffled yell from inside the house, too indistinct to decipher, and then another shout from a much closer room that Quentin could make out, along with the sound of glass shattering. . 

“I heard the damn door!” 

Quentin glanced at Eliot again, this time concerned, but Eliot merely rolled his eyes and shook his head, as if to say “nothing to worry about.”

Quentin had insisted that Eliot needn’t escort him on his venture to see to see one William Adiyodi, principal violinist of the Vienna Opera orchestra and Eliot’s second-in command at court. Quentin was to persuade Adiyodi to help him with the orchestration of his concerto, and felt deeply that he should do it himself. Eliot had countered that he needed to see Adiyodi to rehearse with him for their court performance that evening, anyway, so the visit was really no trouble. 

“Besides, it makes sense for me to be there, Q,” Eliot had said while helping Quentin dress that morning. Eliot tended to cling even when Quentin agitated him, aggressively playing valet even through their argument. Quentin had never before known someone who could angrily fasten cufflinks. “Adiyodi is not an easy person with which to make introductions, and I am the soloist in the concerto after all, even though you refuse to let me _see_ the blasted thing.”

Quentin whistled through his teeth. _This_ again. 

“It’s not _ready_ yet, Eliot.”

It wasn’t the first time Eliot had begged to see the concerto, beseeching him over and over again for ‘just one look, please.’ Quentin didn’t understand what the great hurry was, after all, this was his largest project yet. Was it wrong for him to want it to be perfect before unveiling it to the soloist?

Eliot had persisted.

“Please, my dear. You won’t even practice it while I’m at home– I have no idea what it even _sounds_ like–”

“Once your violinist looks over the orchestration it will be ready,” Quentin said firmly. 

Eliot released his wrist, satisfied that his cufflinks were secure. 

“Q, everyone has trouble with orchestration on their first try, it’s nothing to be ashamed of–”

“Don’t _Q_ me, Eliot–”

It had been a bit of a fight, but one that ended with Quentin’s trousers and drawers around his ankles in the butler’s pantry, Eliot’s slick hand and filthy words bringing him off with their frustration as a guiding light. Quentin wasn’t certain if their lustful encounter had _ended_ their quarrel, or if it was merely in stasis now, hibernating like a carnivore through the winter. 

In truth, he was trying not to think about it. 

Which brought them to the living quarters of one William Adiyodi. The apartment was a humble residence that resembled the boarding house Quentin had left in Leipzig. He pulled his jacket closer to his body, the autumn chill now very real in the air with October’s arrival. He couldn’t believe he had been in Vienna for almost five months. 

The change in seasons meant less people bustling about the streets, a warm fireplace and cup of tea must more attractive than a walk in the park now that the weather was turning. Quentin didn’t understand why; the brightly colored changing foliage was just as attractive to him as the summer blooms. As a child, the shift from summer to autumn enchanted him, a sort of natural magic that supported his own fantastical leanings. Even now, Vienna was changing before their very eyes. Quentin had composed a small piece the week before to commemorate the autumn’s arrival and the colors illuminating the trees around the townhouse, and he smiled to remember how Margo had found it charming. 

Footsteps approached the door now, jolting him out of his fond memory, and Quentin tensed. 

“Relax, my love,” Eliot said quietly. “He’s a violinist, not a fire-breathing dragon.”

“Is there a difference?”

Eliot snorted a laugh just as the door swung open, revealing a tall man with dark skin and black hair cropped close to his head. He wore only plain brown trousers and a linen shirt that was open at the collar. His violin and bow swung precariously from his left hand. 

“What are you laughing about, Waugh?”

Eliot recovered quickly and said, cooly: “Only the lack of varnish on your instrument, Adiyodi.”

Adiyodi narrowed his eyes, and Quentin glanced back and forth between them, wondering wildly whether the two men were actually fighting. Adiyodi looked down at his instrument, which was indeed sorely missing some of the varnish near the scroll and chin rest. 

“What would the emperor say?” Eliot said, raising his eyebrows. 

Finally, Adiyodi laughed, a bitter sound that barely came with a smile. He turned, gesturing over his shoulder for them to follow him. Eliot winked at Quentin and stepped over the threshold. 

“Is this your new stray?” Adiyodi called as they followed him into a long room with a piano lodged in the corner and tall music stand weighed down with sheet music. “I’d heard you were hosting a courtless musician.”

“My new student, of course,” Eliot said. “Quentin Coldwater.”

“Your students are ladies and useless second sons, Eliot,” He flipped his violin under his chin, plucking out a few notes as he stared down at the music.

Quentin cleared his throat, his first impression already completely in the gutter. “It’s an honor to make your acquaintance, Herr Adiyodi. I had hoped–”

Adiyodi interrupted his stuttering with a few full draws of the bow over the strings. Something fast and timed, probably from the newest opera yet to be staged. Quentin knew very little about opera, a fact that he was very insecure about. The art was so cosmopolitan, so removed from his own provincial roots, he could barely wrap his mind around how it all came together. 

Eliot doffed his top hat and positively slid over to the piano, improvising an accompaniment on the spot before his bottom even hit the bench. Adiyodi responded immediately, his playing falling into step easily with the waltz accompaniment. It was a raucous and swaying piecing, something perhaps that would support a dance scene. 

Quentin set his own hat down beside Eliot’s, and took a seat in a rickety chair beside the table. Herr Adiyodi was superb, of course, as Eliot had promised. He played with that special surety that orchestral musicians possessed. He hammered out passage work without breaking a sweat, his runs clean and even. His phrasing was a bit repetitive, but Quentin imagined as a court musician one didn’t have time to labor over artistic choices. 

After a few minutes, Adiyodi looked at Eliot to signal the last progression, and then they finished together, Eliot rumbling a tremolo in the bass. The two men laughed as they finished, their way now easy around each other. Eliot held himself differently with this man. Looser, his shoulders slightly forward rather than puffed out to give himself broader frame than he possessed naturally. Quentin had seen Eliot with his upper crust friends and members of Margo’s extended family, but never someone he might consider an equal, musical or otherwise. 

“Wonderful,” Eliot said, standing and leaning against the piano. “Now, before we rehearse, might I trouble you for some coffee?”

Adiyodi set his violin down and took up a square of rosin. “Sure, sure, in the kitchen.”

“Perfect. I’ll be right back, then we rehearse.”

Eliot pointedly raised his eyebrows at Quentin as he exited. Quentin followed him with his gaze, panic setting in with every step he took away from him. 

“So what’s your story?”

Quentin whipped his head back around. Adiyodi watched him as he slid the rosin along his bow. 

“I’m sorry?”

Now he looked at Quentin as if he were the stupidest person alive.

“Where are you from?”

“Oh,” Quentin stuttered. “Zwickau, originally. Though I should say Leipzig, most recently.”

He nodded. “Not a bad orchestra there. The Gewandhaus is pretty good for amateurs, and Felix does amazing work. Did have a lot of dealings with the orchestra?”

Quentin cleared his throat, tapping his fingers on the folio resting on the table. “I’m afraid not. I had hoped to compose a symphony while I was there and perhaps present it to Herr Mendelssohn but– my attentions were drawn more towards the piano.”

There was a clinking of glass in the next room. Eliot in the kitchen.

Adiyodi raised his eyebrows. “Clearly.”

He lifted his violin again, and Quentin jumped on the opportunity. 

“Speaking of orchestral music,” he stuttered. “I was wondering if you would take a look at something I had written.”

Adiyodi looked immeasurably nervous. “You didn’t actually write a symphony, did you?”

“No, no–” Quentin shook his head, flipping open his folio. “A concerto actually. Eliot will premiere as the soloist, but I’m afraid this is my first major instrumental work, and I–”

“You need someone to check instrument ranges.”

“Oh– well– not so much someone to check instrument ranges as someone who holds the _expertise_ to really elevate my work–”

Adiyodi waved a hand, hanging his instrument on a hook screwed into the wall. He took a seat beside Quentin at the table.

“So you need a range checker.”

Quentin bit his lip, holding his gaze. “If you say so.”

Adyodi squinted, as if he couldn’t get a clear enough look at Quentin though he sat right in front of him. Adiyodi had a strong gaze, but strangely soft, as he could read your thoughts through the portals of your eyes. Whatever he saw from Quentin, it made him tense his jaw. 

“What are you playing at, Coldwater?”

“Pardon?”

“What is your end goal here? I heard about Waugh’s party, about your _charming_ little music and your _lovely_ new publication from Bauer.” Adiyodi mocked, taking on a version of the very posh accent Quentin had heard from the few aristocrats he had met he had met in Vienna. “That’s fine. Piano composers are a dime a dozen these days and are of no threat to me. But _orchestral_ works are a new frontier, _my_ frontier to be exact. What are you trying to accomplish?”

Quentin looked around, as if Adiyodi were looking at a different, more devious musician than himself. “I want to make music, surely that is obvious.”

“But to what point? Are you trying to gain a position at court?” He sat up straighter “Let me be frank, Coldwater. Connection is everything in this world, and Waugh might have snuck ahead of me at court, but I won’t let him weasel you in when I have worked hard for this position, even if–”

Quentin felt horrifically underprepared to deal with this. He threw up his hands, trying to stop the tirade. 

“Herr Adiyodi–”

“It’s Penny.”

Quentin cleared his throat, evening out his tone. “Penny. My words are true: I would like your help with the orchestration of my concerto. I don’t wish for anything but modest success and appreciation of my success, and I assure you I am not another virtuoso vying for the spotlight. I have no interest in a place at court, and I’m not a performer in any real sense so I couldn’t be granted one even if I wished for it.”

Quentin fought to hide a gasp, having said his entire speech in once breath. Penny looked him up and down and Quentin felt as if he were made of glass, completely transparent. 

Finally, Penny held out a hand. 

“Give it here, then.”

Slowly, Quentin slipped the orchestra manuscript from his folio, setting it on the table. Penny sat, immediately picking up a pen to make a mark. At that moment, Eliot re-entered the room, sipping coffee from a chipped teacup. 

“Are we getting along, children?”

Penny gestured rudely at Eliot without looking up from Quentin’s score. He pointed to a particular bit of difficult passagework in the strings. 

“The cellos will not like you for that. Give it to the violins instead.”

Quentin made a note, heeding Penny’s advice even though he would have preferred it in a lower register. 

Penny shuffled past the solo cadenza. “If you’re looking to not kill the oboe player, you better lower this an octave.”

Quentin squinted at the melody line, making notes in the margins. “Of course, how silly of me.”

Quentin felt Eliot standing behind his back.

“What is it?” Quentin asked, half-looking over his shoulder. 

“Oh nothing…” Eliot’s hand reached forward, dipping into Quentin’s folio quick as lightning and snatching out the solo piano part that had been peeking out. 

Quentin snapped around. “Eliot!”

He held the stack of manuscript paper out of his reach. “Quentin, I would like to try out the solo part for your concerto now. Do I have your permission?”

The seconds ticked by. Quentin knew that if he declined Eliot would return the music to him and say no more about it. Eliot was taking a chance, or testing him. 

Quentin sighed. “You do. If you must.”

Eliot’s face broke into a smile, the same one that usually precursed a kiss if they were not in mixed company.

“It’s not as if we had a rehearsal planned in advance…” Penny muttered under his breath, making another note in Quenitn’s score. 

“All in good time, Herr Adiyodi!” Eliot said as he bounded back to the piano, manuscript flying onto the stand as he set his hands to the keys. 

Penny continued correcting isolated errors in Quentin’s orchestral score, talking above Eliot’s cacophonous playing as if he were completely unfazed. Quentin listened and made notes, but mostly he watched Eliot.

Eliot’s skill at the piano was unmatched, at this point, Quentin knew, but he also excelled at the smaller skills that others often miss. The way Eliot could improvise a waltz at a party to bring joy to those around him, or the way he heard a man singing a folk song on the street corner and brought it home to be arranged for the masses. The way he could sit at the piano and make Quentin’s concerto come to life as if it _weren’t_ the first time the notes sat under his hands. 

Eliot was a genius, and Quentin could never measure up. 

“This isn’t half-bad, Coldwater,” Penny said, straightening the manuscript and handing it back to him. “Fix what I marked and you will be the orchestra’s sweetheart.”

“I will. Thank you for your help.”

Eliot finished the exposition, moving into the development. 

Penny shrugged, and Quentin surmised that that was the best approximation of a ‘you’re welcome’ as he was going to receive.

“Speaking of,” he said, standing and retrieving his violin from the hook. “Who are you getting for the orchestra? Will you premiere it in Leipzig?”

All at once, Eliot’s piano playing stopped before Quentin could respond. 

“Well,” Eliot said, leaning on an elbow against the fallboard. “I was hoping that this visit could kill two birds with one stone, my old friend.”

Penny laughed once, throwing his head back. “We’re not old friends.”

Eliot quirked a half-smile. “I suppose not. But even new friends can help each other, wouldn’t you agree?”

He lifted his violin, playing a slow scale, closing his eyes as if listening for errors of intonation. There were none. 

Eliot was unfazed. He stood, coming to stand in front of Penny’s music stand. 

“I’m sure you could use your influence to gather some musicians from the opera orchestra to play for Quentin’s concerto.”

Quentin stood. “Eliot, I’m sure this is completely unnecessary–”

“Come on, sir,” Eliot interrupted. “Surely this would be a lucrative opportunity for you, what with your connections at the theater? If you set the wage for the orchestra, then some of the profits would go in your pocket. And you _did_ mention that you were trying to form a public orchestra the other day while we performed for the Gustenberg function, did you not?”

Penny stopped playing, letting his bow arm fall to the side. For a moment, Quentin was sure he was going to tell them both to fuck off, until Penny sighed, his expression resigned. 

“How many players did you have in mind, Waugh?”

Eliot grinned, victorious.

Using Quentin’s manuscript as a guide, Eliot very cleanly arranged for the concerto to premiere at the royal theater with a forty piece orchestra. The fee for the theater would be waived, of course, since Eliot did so many of his solo recitals there, and the orchestra could perform alone for the second half of the concert. Penny scribed the details on a spare bit of manuscript paper, nodding and offering suggestions on players. 

Quentin watched quietly, a sort of undefinable tick building in the back of his mind.

“Did you have anyone in mind for the conductor?” Penny asked as he made a list of woodwind players.

“Why, I will conduct the orchestra myself, from the piano,” Eliot answered, leaning back in his chair and putting his feet on an empty chair. “If Quentin thinks that is suitable. Quentin?”

Suddenly, both of their gazes rested on Quentin, impatiently waiting for his answer. 

“Whatever you think is best, Eliot.”

Eliot blinked, but otherwise didn’t miss a moment before he began talking to Penny again. 

Eliot took care of the remaining arrangements, leaving the date open for the time being, presumably to give Quentin enough time to make edits. Quentin didn’t know for sure, as Eliot refrained from consulting him for his opinion for the remainder of the meeting. He remained silent, ultimately dismissing himself altogether to get some fresh air with a scrape of his chair. Neither Eliot nor Penny commented on his exit.

He smoked a cigarette on the stairs to Penny’s house, looking quite the degenerate based on the glares of the citizens passing by. He didn’t care, accustomed to the side-eyed looks from merchants and shopkeepers on the streets of Leipzig, why should it be any different here? At least it Vienna not as many knew of his failures as a son, or as a musician.

Inside, Penny played furiously as Eliot accompanied him, finally settling in for their [ rehearsal ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hEQsjAVtZYY) proper. It was a piece of a more subdued nature, passion and longing infused in each long-held note. Quentin wondered what sort of court engagement required such soulful music. Of course, Eliot showed remarkable restraint when playing with the violinist, taking great care to not upstage the quieter instrument. Each phrase was artfully shaped, as if they were one great instrument. Perfection in each and every note.

Quentin tapped his foot nervously on the stone stairs, stubbing out his cigarette and letting the ashes fall to the ground.

An hour passed, and Eliot exited the house. 

“I bid Penny goodbye for you,” He said as Quentin rose to his feet. 

“He must think me rude,” Quentin muttered. 

“Not in the slightest. He is not the sentimental sort.”

Quentin snorted. “I hadn’t noticed.”

They lapsed into silence and began to walk in the direction leading back to the townhouse. All along the roadside, rich households were receiving their daily delivery of wood to fuel their fires and stoves, and the sidewalks became treacherous to roam. 

“You didn’t ask me what I thought of your concerto,” Eliot said when they were halfway down the mainstreet.

Quentin clambered over a particularly tall pile, scuffing his shoes. 

“I’d assumed that you found it passable when you made no comment.”

“Passable?” Eliot said, making the journey over the woodpile with considerably more grace. 

“Yes, as Herr Adiyodi said.” Quentin could barely recognize the cold tone to his own voice. “Not half-bad.”

“Penny isn’t one for effusive praise,” Eliot explained. “His acceptance of it is actually a great compliment.”

“Ah,” Quentin said, nodded. “I’ll be sure to pass on my thanks to him at our next meeting.”

“Good idea.”

They walked in silence another quarter-mile. 

“For some reason,” Eliot said slowly, carefully, as if he were holding something glass. “I sense that you are angry with me.”

Quentin wrinkled his nose. “I’m not, be at ease.”

“Wonderful.”

Another quarter-mile. They passed the gates of the Hofburg palace, and Eliot greeted the guards by name. They smiled and greeted him in turn, and Quentin turned away lest Eliot feel obligated to introduce him. 

With the palace behind them, Eliot spoke again. 

“If you were angry with me,” he started. “I would only seek to know why, so that I might fix it.”

Quentin smiled small, shaking his head. He exhaled through his mouth. 

“I’m not angry.” Quentin stopped, running a hand over his face. Eliot stopped in front of him. “Though I do feel as though you think me incapable.”

“Incapable of what?”

Quentin shook his head, not wanting to voice the answer to that question. He countered with his own. 

“Does my music not stand alone on its own merit?”

Eliot rolled his eyes.

“Come here.”

Quentin’s chest tightened, and Eliot led him to a gap between buildings, out of the way of any prying ears on the street. The walls were made of stone stone and damp with old rain, radiating cold. Eliot put his hands on his hips. 

“You know how I feel about your music, Quentin.”

“Yes!” Quentin whispered emphatically. “I know how _you_ feel, but how will I know how others perceive my music if your fame is the only mechanism by which they receive it?”

Eliot pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry, I was under the impression that you had agreed to my offer to promote your music, unless I imagined our time in Leipzig.”

“This isn’t just about your performance of my music. You _know_ what I mean.”

“Do I?” Eliot asked, looking up. His eyes were angry. “Make me understand, because right now I stand confused.”

“What kind of man am I if my lover–” Quentin looked around, horrified. Several people walked by, a lady on the arm of her beau and a mother clutching his mother’s skirts, but none turned to look. He lowered his voice. “This is not just about your performance of my work, this is about me using your reputation. What kind of _musician_ am I if I cannot make my own way? If you have to make one for me?”

Eliot shook his head, gaze skyward. “You don’t understand, Quentin. You were content to starve as an artist in Leipzig, but if you wish for your music to be heard by crowds larger and more attentive than a rowdy country dance, then you must be willing to use what cards you have to play. I am your card– and I am telling you that music is not heard by its own merit, but by the virtue of _connection.”_

“You can’t mean that, not truly.”

“Oh, but I do mean it.” This Eliot was different than Quentin had ever seen him, harder, less in love with the possibilities the world had to offer. “It is about _who you know_ in this business, I’m afraid. Why do you think so much rubbish music makes it through to the publishers? You find out after its premiered by some hack virtuoso like Hoberman that they have a patron in the line of Esterhazy that knew Haydn, or some such other connection. It has little to do with their music and all to do with whose pockets are properly lined.”

“Does that mean you feel as if you have to… pay for my music to be performed?”

Eliot sighed, as if he were suddenly exhausted. “No. Your music, despite your lack of confidence, is marvelous. With a proper performer, which I daresay you have in me, it shall make its own way. But there are logistical matters that need attention. You composed a concerto. Where did you think you would get orchestral musicians to perform it? Did you think they would magically appear on stage the evening of the premiere?”

“Of course not.”

“Of course you don’t. You wouldn’t be so foolish. Now, instead of scraping for scraps, you can use _my_ connections to forge a path, and isn’t that so much easier? You already have an orchestra, just like that!”

“But– you are loved at court! How could anyone say no, if they truly despised my music?”

Eliot shook his head, exasperated. “No one has ever despised your music, Quentin.”

Quentin laughed, ugly and mean and full of insecurity. “How could you say that, after I confided in you about my mother? _Everyone_ despised my music, before I met you. Only Alice had any stomach for it at all. My family thought it worthless, my friends thought it was unplayable. Even Julia pleaded with me to compose something light and pleasant to play and hear, it was why I began that dreadful sonata in the first place.”

Eliot bit his upper lip. “I told you when we first met that I have no patience for self-depreciation.”

Quentin threw up his hands. “Then I suppose you have no patience for me.”

He strode out of the alley back onto the sidewalk, anger burning in his throat. Eliot’s long strides caught up with him quickly. 

“This is all because you are dreadfully unhappy here,” Eliot said to his back, his voice too loud for the crowded street. “Because you are unhappy with me.”

“What?” Quentin stopped, laughing in disbelief, turning to face him head on. “What are you talking about?”

Eliot shook his head, biting his lip and walking ahead. 

“We should get home,” he said over his shoulder.

Quentin chased after him, his heart learning how to beat again and it did, hard and fast against his ribs because Eliot was walking away from him– Eliot, the man who he had grown to cherish above all others, the man who had opened his home to him. Unhappy? Quentin’s inadequacies had nothing to do with Eliot, or his love for him. 

What had Quentin done?

“Eliot– 

He didn’t turn.

“I don’t wish to argue in the street, Quentin– “

“Just– stop.” Quentin caught his arm, letting his hand drop just as soon as Eliot turned. “What’s this about?”

Eliot swallowed, shaking his head. He smiled, a shadow of its normal glory. 

“I apologize for the outburst. We should be getting home, my concert is only a few hours away and I need to make sure Todd pressed my good velvet.”

Quentin didn’t pursue the matter anymore, and they finished their walk in silece. Once inside, Eliot took the stairs two at a time, shutting the door to his dressing room tightly and with intention. Quentin stared after him for a time until Franz came by to see if there was something he needed. 

“Oh, no, I’m sorry Franz, I’ll just–” He turned away from the staircase and strode into Eliot’s study, shutting the door behind him. 

Quentin removed his hat and threw it on the sofa, the little _poof_ sound that it made not matching his anger. He removed his jacket as well and loosened his necktie, sitting down at the piano. 

If he was being honest, his concerto was done. Eliot thought him to be much more conscientious than he was in reality, always making excuses for his procrastination by saying that Quentin was an obsessive editor. It wasn’t that, not really: Quentin was scared for his music, scared to allow it to leave the safety of his piano and be received by the world. For most of his life, those who were supposed to support him had simply thrown his music back in his face. Even Julia would take it and rewrap it in kind words and accolades, guilty but still not willing to receive it.

_It’s lovely, Quentin, really, but it’s not for me._

He set his hands to the keys, finding his way to the beginning of the concerto, half-heartedly plunking out the first melody. It fell easily in his hand, closer to more cosmopolitan styles than his previous works. Eliot’s style, to be precise. Listening to him play, watching him work, and living in his home had made Eliot’s personage inseparable from Quentin’s compositions. And in truth, he had wanted to compose something worthy of Eliot, something worthy of the grand halls for which he performed. 

He slowly worked his way through the cadenza, some of the finger work needed for it incredibly complicated. Eliot had played it by sight that afternoon, squinting at a handwritten manuscript in Penny’s dimly lit apartment. 

Every theme, every moment of it represented his love for Eliot, his yearning for him even as they lay side by side each night. Did Eliot know?

“I’ll have a second piano brought in so that we might practice the orchestral and solo parts together.”

Quentin turned. Eliot stood in the doorway, dressed impeccably in the more austere concert blacks he often reserved for court performances. He stood tall and with an air of formality, as if he were already in the presence of the Emperor. 

“That would do very well, I think,” Quentin said, nodding. “It will help me hear the full picture.”

“Are you sure it is not too _grand_ a gesture for you?” Eliot asked, his tone astringent. 

The bench creaked as Quentin stood. 

“Eliot.”

“I should be going.”

Quentin crossed the floor to where he stood, cupping his face with one hand. Eliot closed his eyes. 

Quentin spoke softly. “You know that I wasn’t speaking of our affair earlier. You must know.”

Eliot leaned into his palm, and Quentin exhaled. 

“I’m only frustrated at my lack of effectiveness in steering my own career,” Quentin continued.

Eliot shook his head. “You’re not ineffective, I– I could barely breathe as I played your concerto today. I am _honored_ that you chose me to bring your music to the world, to convey the message that I know lies in your heart.” As if unconsciously, he drew his hand over Quentin’s chest, letting his other rest at the back of his neck. “Allow me to be the vessel that carries you to success. You _must_ allow me this.”

It was there and gone, quick as a flash, the same look Eliot had given Quentin in the Inn along the road to Vienna. It had been a simpler service then, only the mundane task of helping Quentin undress for the evening. _Let me,_ his eyes had said then, when Quentin had been tempted to tell him that his doting was unnecessary. _Allow me._

“I will always want you to play my music, Eliot.”

Eliot smiled, the first genuine grin Quentin had seen since their fight that morning. He pressed their mouths together in a warm kiss, pulling away to lean their foreheads together. 

“I must away,” he said. “Wait up for me?”

“Of course.”

He left Quentin there with one more kiss to his cheek. He watched him get in the carriage outside the door and sighed, letting the curtains fall closed. 

Eliot was quick to fight– a forest fire that burned hot– but quick to forgive, even quicker to pretend as if it hadn’t happened at all. It made fighting easy, to know that Quentin would be forgiven for a harsh word or sharp snap of the tongue, but how long would Eliot endure his insecurities? Would Eliot’s penchant forgiveness fade slowly like the change of the seasons, or would it simply cease at the turn of a hat, like a summer storm?

He stayed at the piano for another hour, laying a fresh sheet of manuscript paper on the stand but neglecting to fill it. He didn’t feel like creating anything new at the moment. His hands wandered, finding bits and pieces of his _Papillons_ he had been meaning to adjust, and then finding their way to one of [ Eliot’s newest compositions. ](https://youtu.be/hLXOOeMKmJc?t=13)

Eliot had started it on one of the off days where he wasn’t a required presence at court. On those days he spent the morning playing piano and composing, rattling the walls with his playing. Sometimes he merely practiced, his own music was difficult enough to require some study, despite his status as a virtuoso. Most days, he composed, creating something out of nothing. Sometimes the melodies were meandering– spun out material as thin as a spider web that disappeared in the wind, never to be fully formed. Others found their place in a new piece of music. Either way, Eliot’s music was breathtaking. 

Quentin kept to himself those mornings, giving Eliot space to work; he took walks to the cafe and wandered amongst the peddlers and street criers, searching for inspiration wherever he might happen upon it. One day, however, Eliot had called him into his study to keep him company while he composed a new piece. 

“We have chosen such a lonely art, wouldn’t you say?” Eliot had asked, turning briefly away from the keys to face Quentin where he sat on the sofa. 

Quentin lowered his book. “My father always used to say that while I practiced.”

Eliot nodded. “A wise man, to be sure. We must share our art with scores upon scores of people, but to create it we must isolate ourselves more than silent monks.”

Quentin snorted a laugh. “Obviously not, as I am here with you.”

Eliot smiled slyly, turning back to the keys. “Only because today I feel _especially_ lonely.”

“I’m sure.”

Eliot began to play then, his left hand a rumbling arpeggio and the right a sparkling melody. Quentin stood, scanning the manuscript sitting on the music stand. 

“It’s lovely, Eliot. What is it?”

Eliot shrugged without missing a beat. “I’m not sure. I composed it yesterday evening, after you were asleep.”

“In bed?”

He nodded. “I heard the melody clear in my mind. A sorrowful substitution for the touch of my lover, since you had abandoned me to slumber.”

Quentin squeezed his shoulder. “I shall see fit to let you fall asleep first, from now on.”

“I appreciate that.”

Eliot continued to play, and Quentin waited. Sometimes Eliot’s music started this way, slow and soft, but there was always a break. A crash. The thunder and storm of his heart spilled upon the page. Large, strong emotions– hunger, lust, passion, _joy_ – but the more tender feelings had been Quentin’s domain. 

“It would seem as if you have left your mark on my music as well,” Eliot mused, as if he could read Quentin’s thoughts. “I find myself drawn to music of a quieter nature as of late. Not everything requires a cadenza, or so I’ve been told.”

“The melody is genteel,” Quentin said, letting it wash over him. “Comforting even.”

Eliot hummed his assent. “They say that true friendship is the only consolation for a loss of faith in God.”

Quentin bent down to kiss him then, pressing one to his cheek and another to his neck. 

“I hope you refer to our beloved friendship,” Quentin whispered. “Though I would be sad to hear if you had misplaced your faith.”

Eliot nuzzled closer, forever one of the most tactile people Quentin had ever met. 

“It is not misplaced, my love,” Eliot said, laying a hand on the back of Quentin’s neck to bring him closer, the music having faded away, replaced with their sacred touch. “Merely found in your precious affections.”

“Penny for your thoughts, Q?”

Quentin jolted out of his memory, his hands flying from the keys as if were a naughty child playing the piano without permission. The door closed, and Margo’s laughter filled the room. 

“I’m sorry, Eliot gets so cross when I interrupt his playing,” she giggled again. “I have to fulfill my need to surprise with you, I’m afraid.”

He smiled. “You could never be an interruption, my lady.”

“Always the flatterer.” She set her small silk handbag on the desk. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you working so late.”

Quentin shrugged. “I wasn’t truly working. Are you not accompanying Eliot to court this evening?”

She flopped onto the sofa, her skirts puffing up slightly to reveal a slim line of ankle. Quentin removed his gaze. 

“I offered, but he seemed content to go alone.” She blew away a feather from her bonnet that had drooped in her face. Quentin was always taken aback by how informal Lady Margo could be, though so refined in her fashion and taste. It wasn’t that he was unaccustomed to strong-willed women— he had lived his entire life in Julia’s shadow. Alice’s affections could be compared to a wild ride in a runaway carriage– and even his mother was no one to be trifled with, taking on the dominant role in his childhood home while his father buried himself in his hobbies to forget the boom of cannon fire. 

And yet, Lady Margo was different. 

“Tonight was more of a performance occasion than a social one,” she explained. “When talk is needed it’s better for Eliot to appear as a gentleman with his titled wife. When he’s merely a performer everyone is much more comfortable if he’s there in a servant’s capacity.”

Quentin furrowed his brow in confusion. “I find it difficult to picture Eliot as a servant.”

“You haven’t been privy to the intricacies of court.” She rolled her eyes, as if sickened just to think of it. “Your country gentleman’s manners are far too dependent on common sense for the likes of the Viennese aristocracy.”

Quentin laughed, shaking his head. “Everyone speaks of my country manners. I’m afraid I don’t understand what makes me so different.”

“Well.” Margo smirked, standing. “For one, when I introduce you, you always reach out a hand, as if you were greeting one of the tenant farmers on your estate.” She demonstrated, sticking out her hand with typical provincial heartiness. “Then you bow, and it’s always with a flourish of your arm to try to mask it.” She folded awkwardly at the waist with a flip of her wrist, obviously limited in her range of motion from her corsets. 

Quentin laughed, her display completely accurate. 

She straightened, eyes sparkling. “I _wish_ you would let us petition for you to be received at court. It would give me years of comical material to draw upon.”

“And what did I do to deserve such abuse tonight?”

She sat back down on the sofa. “Why, for one, you had the audacity to look positively _morose_ at the piano. I was forced to make you laugh, even if it was at your expense.”

Quentin acquiesced to her point; Margo was good at making him laugh. They shared more and more time together. As the social season loomed and Eliot was needed more frequently at court, he and Margo spent many mornings alone at the breakfast table: she provided the gossip of a personal nature from her many calls and he the political from the cafes he frequented. Gradually, he became less awkward in her presence.

“How was your day, my lady? You were visiting your cousin, if I am correct?”

Margo picked at an invisible thread on her sleeve, her expression smooth and passive. 

“Yes. Dear Sophia has her hands full what with her three boys. I scarcely know how she keeps the nanny happy.” She looked up, her smile somewhat forced, as if she were a poor actress in a low quality traveling drama. “And now, what with her in the family way again– I do hope they have enough room in the nursery.”

Quentin stuttered a bit. He did not come from a family where pregnancy was discussed openly. 

“Well, that must be a cause of great joy for her and Lord Hanson, is it not?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” She slipped her handkerchief out from her sleeve, absentmindedly twisting it between her fingers. 

Quentin leaned forward, turning on the bench to fully face her. 

“My lady? Is everything alright?”

When she looked up, she smiled. When Margo smiled truly, her eyes shone and crinkled at the corners. Quentin had witnessed her true smiles: when Eliot made a funny joke, or when she was lost in a particularly riveting new novel, her feet tucked under her skirts and her expressions freely given to the characters on the page. 

This smile now held only sadness. 

“Indeed, dear Q, worry not. I’m only so happy for my cousin.” She set the handkerchief aside, unused. “Only… would you be so kind as to keep this between just us two? I would like to tell Eliot myself.”

Quentin sensed that her request was not as light as it appeared, but chose to let the subject slide. Really, what right did her have to pry into the inner workings of Lady Margo Waugh?

“You need not worry, your secret is safe with me.”

She nodded, her smile warming only just. “Good man, Q. All this talk of families…” She shivered, as if suddenly chilled. 

Quentin laughed. “Yes, it is a heavy subject.”

“I should say so.” 

They sat in silence for a moment, the ticking of the clock on the mantel the only sound between them. She sat up.

“But I forget myself, how was your meeting with Penny today?”

Quentin groaned slightly. “Eliot told you about that?”

She leaned forward, smiling wickedly. “Eliot tells me _everything.”_

He sighed, gripping the sides of the bench. “I should have expected so much.”

“I sense a story.” She lifted her skirts slightly, sliding down to make room on the narrow sofa. She patted the space beside her. “Come now. Tell Margo what happened.”

After one moment's pause, Quentin gave in, sitting next to Margo and telling her the whole story of their day, starting with he and Eliot’s fight over the concerto and ending with Quentin getting angry that Eliot seemed to have the upper hand in controlling his career. Margo was a good listener, nodding and keeping a neutral expression and hastening him on when he went on long tangents about the _principle_ of the thing, as if she were making mental notes to analyze further.

After he finished, she pet her hands over her mauve taffeta skirts, furrowing her brow in thought. 

“Did you know that when Eliot and I were first married, Eliot tried to pay off my father’s debts?” 

Quentin shook his head, realizing not for the first time how ignorant he was when it came to Eliot’s past.

She smiled knowingly. “I thought not. Now, my father spent the better part of my girlhood gambling, whittling away at any stronghold of money the Hanson name still brought in. It’s a habit that has followed my older brother into shame, and left myself and my sister with little money to bring to any good match in marriage we were destined to make.”

She continued, relaxing slightly against a pillow. “My father made a stink of things when Eliot and I announced our engagement, publicly threatening him with a duel for my honor since we had made it so apparent that Eliot and I had been lovers.” Margo laughed at the notion. “But the truth of the matter was not so clear. Privately, my father met with Eliot, who explained that he would soon be coming into a rather large sum of money.”

“From his European tour, I take it?” Quentin offered. 

Margo nodded. “Exactly. Now, what with the Hanson coffers nearly empty, my only option was to marry someone of means, but what sensible aristocrat was going to marry a dowryless, not to mention _youngest_ daughter of a penniless Earl?”

Quentin began to understand.

“Being young and somewhat ignorant of the ways of the German nobility, Eliot offered my father money to secure my hand and obtain his blessing.” She pursed her lips. “I, of course, dragged Eliot from my father’s office, having been listening at the door, positively _mortified_ that Eliot thought he had to pay for my hand; that he thought my father had truly any card to play in this matter.”

“I felt betrayed, as if Eliot thought I could not handle this matter myself, or that he thought the mere strength of our bond wasn’t enough. It was the first real fight we had, and with us not even married yet!” She laughed. “I worried that since Eliot was trying to control my father, he might try to control me once we were married, or hold my financial dependence on him over my head.”

“What did he say?” Quentin asked. 

Margo shrugged elegantly, smiling sadly. “Nothing. Or at least nothing until I was done yelling. He waited as I tore up my father’s sitting room, still as a statue. But when I finally stopped and sat down he told me something that I will remember for the rest of my life.”

She smoothed her skirts again, wetting her lips and clearing her throat. 

“He said: You have chosen to love me, as my wife and my friend, and for that I feel I must spend every minute earning that love.”

Quentin blinked. He remembered the steel in Eliot’s eyes when he told him that the publisher would not fully accept _Fantasiestucke,_ his desire for Quentin to play at the party and show off his own music, and the determination and deft he used to convince Penny Adiyodi to help Quentin’s concerto find a venue and orchestra. Ever since Eliot had offered to play his music in the Leipzig cafe, Quentin had been waiting for a bill to arrive tallying up everything Quentin owed him. For Eliot to realize that he was doing too much for Quentin for too little in return. Because what could Quentin offer him, besides his love?

Margo waited patiently as the realization came to him. 

“I see,” he said. “It is as if Eliot sees our love for him as a loan he must return with interest.”

She nodded. “It doesn’t mean you must always give in. I didn’t allow him to pay for my father’s debts. But on his tour I did permit him to have a new dress made for me in every city. I loved them, of course.” They laughed together. “But I knew the symbolism of Eliot repaying his own debt was important to him, no matter how unnecessary in my eyes.”

Quentin took a deep breath, blowing it out slowly as his mind raced. What a pair they were, Quentin thinking himself a charity case, and Eliot convinced he was a debtor.

“I… thank you, My Lady,” he settled with, any more complicated sentiment escaping him. “You have given me much to think about.”

She smiled and patted his knee, rising slowly to her feet. “You are most welcome. Now, I think that is enough heavy talk for the evening. Shall we see if dinner is ready? Frau Schiller told me she wished to try out a new confection for dessert tonight.”

So Quentin allowed himself to be distracted by Lady Margo for the evening.She even convinced him to change into his formal suit for dinner and insisted that Todd open a cherished vintage for the occasion. 

“What are we celebrating?” He asked as the deep red liquid was poured into two fine crystal glasses. 

“Hmm,” Margo mused, already taking a sip before raising the glass over her head. “Having the love of a good man seems reason enough, wouldn’t you think?”

Quentin smiled, raising his glass. It was indeed.

* * *

Eliot burst through the study door one Tuesday while Quentin worked, breathless and smiling.

“You concerto will be performed on the thirtieth day of November.” He kissed Quentin on the cheek, his top hat nearly falling into Quentin’s lap. “Rehearsals begin this week.”

Quentin dragged him down by his ears, giving him a proper kiss on the mouth. Eliot hummed in response and let Quentin knock his hat free to better entwine his fingers in his curls. 

In the weeks that followed, Quentin accompanied Eliot to the royal theater for rehearsals of his concerto, or _Fantasy for Piano and Orchestra,_ as he had decided to name it. Quentin sat in the empty audience with his manuscript in his lap and the freshly published parts sitting on the music stands of forty orchestral musicians. Most were members of the Imperial Opera Orchestra and owed either Penny or Eliot a favor, and some were private hires, namely struggling performers Quentin had made acquaintance with in his associations with artists. 

He had expected that he would have to make adjustments and offer criticism to the artists, anxious about the prospect of critiquing musicians of a higher status than he, but he found that the music poured easily from their instruments. It would seem that Quentin’s part writing had magically come together, with the help of Adiyodi’s advice. The violinist sat in the concert master’s chair, leading the orchestra while Eliot played the solo part. Only occasionally did Quentin have to awkwardly ascend to the stage and make changes in a particular part. 

Eliot hadn’t performed publicly since their arrival in Vienna now three months ago, citing his duties at court and his desire to work on his compositions as reason enough. Quentin knew that touring and performing were Eliot’s primary source of income and that he was bound to return to the stage soon to keep his title as the world’s greatest virtuoso, but watching him play now, unrestrained and unbound by any program, reminded Quentin of _just how much_ Eliot was meant for this. He was meant for this life of performance and flash. Even in his best days as a performer, Quentin had a modesty to his playing that held him back from any true greatness. Eliot took music and made it divine. 

The rehearsals seemed more a formality than a necessity after that.

Before long, the afternoons grew cold and the early signs of winter were upon them. The evening before the concerto performance, Eliot and he did a final run-through on the two pianos that now took up residence in the already narrow study. Quentin played the the part of the orchestra on the leased piano whilst Eliot practiced his dual role of soloist and conductor. 

“Can we keep the spare piano after the concerto is over?” Quentin asked jokingly. 

“Even I cannot promote such thoughtless indulgence,” Eliot said slyly. “Though I did extend the lease for another two months so that we might play Schubert duets into the winter.”

Quentin smiled at the thought– of being warm inside during the snowy days of winter, making music and finding comfort in each other’s company. December was almost upon them, making it nearly six months since Quentin’s arrival in Vienna. Only six months, and already his most major work was being premiered on the most prestigious of stages. 

“Are you nervous?” He asked Eliot as they took a break, his own stomach tied tightly in knots. 

“No,” he responded quickly, smirking out of the corner of his mouth. “Why? Should I be?”

Quentin huffed a laugh, returning his attention to the piano as Todd entered with the wine Eliot had requested. He worked through a few progressions, experimenting with chord voicings. There was a section after the transposition that haunted him– it wasn’t quite right.

“Stop obsessing,” Eliot said, taking a glass of wine from Todd’s offered tray. “Nothing can be changed now without upsetting a great many temperamental musicians.”

“Including the soloist?” Quentin asked jokingly, raising an eyebrow as he took his own glass. “Will he exit the stage in a huff?”

“Of course he will.” Eliot returned with a grin of his own. “I hear he is quite difficult to work with.”

“The worst.”

They drifted away from the piano after that, settling in the parlor where Margo beat them in a game of cards before rising and excusing herself for bed. Franz stoked the fire and bid them good night, leaving Quentin and Eliot alone on the sofa. The room was warm and close, and they sat side by side, Eliot curved into him with a hand firm on his hip, kissing Quentin deeply.

Quentin let himself be pressed back into the cushions. 

“Tomorrow,” Eliot said against his lips, letting his hand trail up to cup Quentin’s face. “I shall have to submit to sharing you with the rest of the world.”

Quentin opened his eyes, ready to quip, to joke and make light of Eliot’s serious tone, but the humorless expression on Eliot’s face stopped him. Instead he turned, kissing his palm. 

“This worries you?”

Eliot’s eyes were hungry, as if he could never look his fill. Quentin had never felt so desired– _wanted._

“Even with you in my world now, it has felt as if we never left Leipzig. A fantasy, this has been. But now…” He paused. “I will let all of Vienna know you are here.” He leaned forward once more, kissing the corner of his mouth before drawing back. “They are going to love you, dearheart.”

After that, Quentin was content to be laid out on the sofa and _kissed_ like he never had before. Even with the shades drawn and they in total privacy, Eliot made no move to remove any of their clothing. Instead, he made a thorough exploration of Quentin’s mouth, pulling his fingers through his hair and swallowing each and every gasp that passed his lips. 

It was a kiss that stayed with Quentin all through the busy day leading up to the performance, grounding him. They had to go to the theater early to be sure that the setup was correct, and to meet with the staff of the theater to be sure that seating for the event was as it should be. It was truly a modern event, what with the aristocracy filling their usual boxes and front-row seats, but with also purchased ticket-holders in the seats along the floor. Much care would have to be taken to not offend the odd Countess with delicate sensibilities _as well as_ the up-and-coming merchant salesman that had paid good money to see a show. 

By the time they were able to return home there was only enough time for a light supper and then it was time to change into their finest and jump into the carriage to the _Burgtheater,_ along with the rest of Vienna. Eliot held tightly to his hand the entire ride.

Quentin hung back as throngs of adoring ladies greeted Eliot as he exited the carriage, gathered in groups around him and virtually sweeping him away. 

“Herr Waugh, you must play a rhapsody for your encore–”

“Herr Waugh, I am most honored to meet you, I am Lady Violet—“

“— saw your concert in Berlin two years ago, and I have been most inspired by your—“

“Ladies, please,” Eliot said, his voice honey and molasses. “I am charmed by your company, but would you deny me the pleasure of escorting my dear wife to her seat?” He took Margo’s arm, deftly covering her hand with his own as the young ladies swooned. 

“Marriage does have its benefits,” Margo muttered to Quentin as they ascended the steps to the theater, now unencumbered. 

Quentin merely nodded as Eliot led them into the theater. He had been here many times before for rehearsals, but that had been during the afternoon and the theater mostly empty. Now there were people everywhere, gentleman and their ladies dressed in their silken finery and the more humble middle class in their Sunday best. Neither parties made any effort to find their seats, Quentin noticed as they wound through the crowds, instead mingling and socializing as if it were a ball and not a recital. 

“Have no fear,” Eliot said as an attendant led them to their box. While one arm was wrapped in Margo’s he let the other trail surreptitiously over Quentin’s hand by his side. “They shall settle when I play. It’s my secret ability.”

“It’s the gloves,” Margo said, and they laughed as they entered the empty box. They were joined by Lady Sophia and Lord Hanson, both in a jolly mood. Time passed quickly and soon it was almost eight, time for Eliot to take his place behind the stage. 

Eliot snapped his pocket watch shut. “I should mingle before the show starts.”

Margo waved and smiled to him, still in conversation with Lady Sophia. The young Lord Hanson was preoccupied with his program. 

Quentin lowered his voice, looking up at Eliot through his eyelashes. “Good luck, my love. Know that I am here.”

Eliot pursed his lips, making a show of picking a stray piece of lint from his trousers to bend down and whisper: 

“I should like to kiss your hand, and claim you before the aristocracy.” He raised his eyebrows, looking wistful. “Such nights as these don’t come about every day.”

Quentin inclined his head, clearing his throat loudly. “I wish you luck, Herr Waugh.”

With a nod, Eliot was gone. 

Quentin was left to his own devices, the nerves building in his stomach as Eliot bounded around to other boxes and to the floor seats to mingle with his guests. Not only was this the evening of Quentin’s concerto, Eliot would also be premiering his _Consolation_ for his encore along with a performance of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony in its entirety by the newly formed orchestra. It was a very serious concert, void of frivolous virtuosos or substance-less music: something the audience would never forget, Eliot had said. 

“Look smart, Herr Coldwater, we are all excited to hear your new work!”

Lady Sophia was looking at him and Quentin relaxed his hands, realizing that he had twisted his program like a wrung towel. 

“Ah— I thank you, my Lady. I am excited to hear the finished product.”

Margo patted his knee supportingly and Quentin looked down to peruse his program. When he looked up, Lady Sophia had turned to greet a newcomer to the Hanson box, a statuesque woman of middling height with fiery red hair twisted elegantly at the base of her neck. Quentin furrowed his brow. He knew her. 

“Lady McCallister! How wonderful to see you.”

“What a wonderful group of music lovers,” the lady said, gaze locking on Quentin. 

Quentin stood immediately, suffering new introductions to the Lady Irene McCallister, one of the most esteemed patrons of the arts in all of Vienna, according to a very tight-voiced Margo. 

“So wonderful to see you again, Herr Coldwater, and looking so prosperous.” She gave him the once-over only very privileged people felt bold enough to give. “I knew that evening in Leipzig that you would find success in Vienna.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Quentin said to be safe, unsure if she were paying him a compliment or not. “Vienna has been good to me.”

“Have a seat, Lady McCallister,” Sophia bequeathed, drawing a chair between her and Quentin. 

Quentin didn’t miss Margo’s tense look look towards her cousin before Irene took her seat. 

“So, Lady McCallister,” Margo started. “I am surprised to see you in Vienna so early before the season.”

Irene laughed haughtily. “You know that I would never miss one of Eliot’s concerts. We made our trip from the country almost two weeks ago.”

Quentin folded his hands nervously. “We’re your travels satisfactory?”

“Indeed,” she returned. “Only one rainstorm.”

Lady Sophia served to keep conversation flowing with her endless small talk. Quentin settled back in his seat, watching as Eliot flirted with a wide-skirted lady in a box directly across from him. He met Quentin’s eye for a moment, smiling rakishly and winking. 

“— would you say, Herr Coldwater?”

Quentin whipped his head around. “I’m sorry, what was the question?”

The aristocrats shared a good laugh at his expense, and Quentin sweated under his best collar. 

“We were only wondering what your inspiration was for your concerto? Do give us the details.”

Quentin gave an answer that he would be unable to remember later, something safe about the majesty of Vienna and the glory of the immortal Holy Roman Empire. Irene McCallister stared at him as if he were a curious insect under her scrutiny. 

“Surely you must be happy for the inspiration of a grand city such as Vienna,” she demurred, the rest of the party nodding. 

“Indeed, my lady,” Quentin said. 

“Although, your music is so humble and quaint, it must remind Herr Waugh of his roots in the wilds of Hungary.” She tucked an invisible stray piece of hair behind her ear. There was not a pin out of place. “He is so kind to indulge you.”

Margo learned in, her tone dripping sweetness. “Eliot is honored to mentor such a promising talent as Herr Coldwater.”

Irene laughed, the sound hollow. “Calm yourself, _Frau_ Waugh, I know how protective you are of your very… exotic husband. However, a show of your notorious anger could end very poorly for him.”

Quentin was left gaping at her words, no one had ever deliberately left off Margo’s title in his presence before, even if it was only a show of respect to her legacy, and what could Lady McCallister possibly mean by _exotic?_ Quentin couldn’t spare himself another thought because in that moment Eliot had chosen to waltz out onto the stage, bowing and gesturing graciously to the orchestra as the crowd leapt to their feet and applauded him. He shook hands with Penny, a show of mutual respect. 

Lady McCallister, the very picture of smugness, sat back in her seat. 

Margo was positively crimson. Quentin leaned over, out of earshot of Irene McCallister as the crowd roared and Eliot took one last bow before taking his seat at the piano. 

“My lady,” Quentin whispered. “Are you alright?”

“I’m wonderful.”

Her tone was icy, and Quentin wasn’t able to respond as the applause died away and Eliot signaled to the orchestra that he was ready to begin. 

Of course, he was [ magnificent ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3jbHbDena_U). 

He could be nothing less. Eliot wove every theme together as one does thread and then let it all unravel beautifully. The orchestra played triumphantly and with true collaboration, creating one unified sound. The introspective cadenza was less flash and more tenderness, and Eliot filled the hall with sound whether he played the softest soft or the loudest loud. As he trilled, the main theme suspended in the air above them, Quentin could feel the crowd hold a collective breath.

Once finished, the crowd leapt to their feet, and Eliot gestured to Quentin, speaking his name. He took a bow from the box, and his first premiere in Vienna was over. 

Quentin barely noticed. 

What he did notice was Margo, angrily tapping her fingers on her knees throughout the entire performance, pursing her lips and glancing at Irene with murder in her eyes. He knew not what Irene referred to, but he knew that Margo was upset. As Quentin watched Eliot perform his encore to a hushed crowd, his strokes of the keys as light and lush as a lover, he realized how petty he had been. 

Eliot had his secrets, this much was apparent, and Quentin had spent the better part of two months worrying that Eliot wouldn’t allow him to take charge of his own career, to have the credit for securing his own legacy. 

But now, with Lady Irene McCallister sitting so smug next to him, her pointed words mean and so quickly cruel, he knew that Eliot sat in just as tenuous a position as he did. 

Margo rose to her feet as soon as intermission began, stomping out of the box without a word. Quentin followed, bowing and begging the apologies of Margo’s cousins and Lady McCallister. She was already halfway down the staircase as Quentin chased after her. 

“Margo—“

He found her in a side hallway off the course of the private boxes, Eliot by her side with one of her hands clenched in his, his face writ with worry. She shook her head, eyes shining but her face dry as she rambled on, her voice harsh with anger. 

“—tear her throat out, I will, and claw her eyes out of her skinny head, I swear I will, Eliot—“

Eliot nodded, grimacing, looking up to see Quentin. 

“Quentin?” He asked. “Is everything alright? 

Quentin exhaled, and suddenly felt the part of the intruder. 

“I…” he swallowed. “My Lady, you seemed so upset, I only—“

He stopped, his words cut off by the muffled sounds of the orchestra tuning behind the wall next to them. 

Eliot squeezed his wife’s hands, raising them to his mouth and then letting them go gently. He turned to Quentin, his gaze soft but firm. This was Eliot Waugh, Imperial Court Virtuoso. 

“Quentin, would you escort Margo home?”

Quentin doubted that Margo required escorting anywhere, but this felt crucial. Eliot was trusting him. 

“I must stay until the orchestra is finished and give another encore—” Eliot elaborated. “It was supposed to be a surprise— well that doesn’t matter now, just, would you?”

“Of course,” Quentin said. 

Eliot nodded, smiling. “I have to get back, I’ll send Todd to get the carriage.”

Margo shook her head, face beet red now. Quentin has never seen her so uncomposed. 

“This is unnecessary, I’m ruining the evening, I’ll just go back.”

“You won’t,” Eliot said. “My love, unless you truly insist I think it would be better that you stay away from Irene tonight, for all of our sakes.”

She nodded, sighing. She received Eliot’s kiss on her cheek. He nodded once to Quentin, and then was gone with the turn of his heel. 

“We should be going,” Quentin said, keeping his voice low. 

Todd brought the carriage around without a problem, though the streets were full of horses and admirers alike. Margo gazed out the window for the entire ride, silent and unreadable. She entered the house with him at her heels, her lace wrap already half off of her shoulders. 

“My lady?” Quentin chanced, his top hat in his hand. 

Her foot was braced on the first stair. She turned, letting it fall to the hallway carpet. 

“Yes?”

“Is there anything I might do?” He said. “Something I could do to help?”

She smiled, just a quirk of her lips. She took a step, and then there was only a foot’s space between them. 

“Eliot told me you were sweet,” she said, a joke on one of the first phrases she had ever uttered to him. He smiled, and she raised a hand to cup his cheek. “I hadn’t realized just how much until now.”

Quentin’s heart stuttered in his chest. Her hand was soft and warm against his face. 

She let it fall by her side. 

“Thank you for seeing me home tonight, however unnecessary.” She swallowed. “Goodnight, Q.”

“Good night, my lady.” 

She left him standing in the hallway, frozen in place until he heard the click of her door close. 

Once upstairs himself, he took his time readying himself for bed, hanging up his black velvet jacket along with the light trousers. He folded his cream-colored cravat, the first that Eliot had ever given him. 

He was almost asleep, warm but worried under the covers when his doorway opened a few hours later. He didn’t stir as Eliot undressed and got into bed behind him, arm encircling his chest. 

“Are you awake?”

Quentin made a noise of assent. “How’s Margo?”

Eliot nodded against the back of his neck. “Asleep. She will live to fight another day.”

Quentin smiled. “I’m glad to hear it. Shouldn’t you have stayed with her tonight?”

“I have found that it’s best to give Margo her space in times such as these.”

Quentin hummed. “I have never seen her so upset.”

“Hm well.” He tightened his arms around Quentin’s waist. “Irene McCallister can have that effect on even the most genteel of ladies. And genteel is not how I would describe my wife.”

Quentin laughed softly. “No, I wouldn’t describe Lady Margo that way either.”

After a few moments silence Eliot said, “Thank you. For escorting her home. I know that she can handle herself but in truth– my motives were selfish.”

Quentin turned in his arms so that they were face to face. “How so?”

“Irene is someone from my past,” Eliot said simply. “You and Margo are my here-and-now, and I don’t wish for the two worlds to mix.”

If this were a different, less stressful evening, Quentin would ask: But what about your past? What about the time that came before him? Before Margo?

He didn’t. 

“I understand,” he said instead, tracing a finger down the open vee of Eliot’s shirt, letting the subject pass. “You played magnificently tonight. I hadn’t told you yet.”

Eliot smiled, the whites of his teeth showing in the darkness. “Thank you. In truth, you were the man of the evening. I had to beat your admirers off with a stick afterwards, all of them wanted to know why the composer wasn’t there to greet them after. You might find your life much changed after this night.”

Quentin couldn’t pretend that the praise didn’t warm his heart, even through the events of the evening. 

“I played your _Ende vom Lied_ as my final encore,” Eliot continued, rubbing a hand down Quentin’s arm. “I had wanted to surprise you… The crowd was on their feet as soon as I finished it. Quentin, your music is a triumph.”

Quentin shivered from the touch and the praise, letting his and Eliot’s feet brush under the blankets. 

“I can only thank you for bringing my music to its audience,” Quentin whispered. “You are radiant on the stage. I only wish–”

Eliot pressed a finger to his lips. “Don’t allow Irene McCallister to sully our evening further. Instead… tell me a story.”

Quentin smiled against the finger, pressing his lips against the pad. “What would you like to hear?”

“The story of your concerto,” Eliot said after a few moments thought. 

“How do you know there is one?”

“Because I know you, my love, and there’s _always_ a story.”

Quentin laughed. “You do know me. Well, there is a story, but I daresay it’s less well-formed than my other works, and not nearly as original. Would you still like to hear it?”

Eliot nodded, cuddling closer. “I would.”

Quentin cleared his throat dramatically. As with any performance for Eliot, butterflies fluttered in his stomach and he felt the anticipation rise. 

“Once, there was a prince. He was handsome, and kind. He was loved by all, especially for his talents at the lyre.”

Eliot smiled into his shoulder. “I like him already.”

Quentin hushed him, and Eliot stifled his laugh. 

“Go on, go on–”

Quentin shook his head. “One day, a lonely knight rode his horse underneath the prince’s window. He sang songs from the battlefield, and the prince heard them. Immediately, he picked up his lyre and tried to recreate the song.”

Eliot hummed. “Is the knight the first theme in the oboe? And then lyre the piano’s answer?”

“Exactly.”

“Do the knight and the prince fall in love?”

Quentin laughed in exasperation. “Yes, they do.”

“I knew it. Tell me more.”

“The prince brings the knight into the castle, wanting to hear his songs everyday and play them on his lyre. The people of the court love the music that the prince plays, and they love the knight because he brings the prince more songs to enchant them with.”

Eliot bent his head, pressing a kiss to Quentin’s arm. 

“And then?”

Quentin swallowed. “And then… the knight became afraid. He was afraid he didn’t belong in this world of kings and queens, of fine parties. The people loved his songs, but did they truly? Or did they only love the prince that made them sound so beautiful?”

“Q…”

“Let me finish.” Quentin cleared his throat. “In the end, the knight watched as the prince performed his songs for an audience of thousands, and realized that the prince played his music because he loved him– and that the knight’s music was the way he shared that love with the world. Perhaps the only way that he could, even at a great personal risk.”

Eliot lightly squeezed his waist. Quentin still wore his shirt, one the fine linen ones that Eliot had gifted for him. It was too fine to wear in bed but Quentin had forgotten to change. He liked too much to feel it against his skin, to remember how generous Eliot was to him. 

“You accept my gifts,” Eliot said, fingering the fine stitching at the cuffs. “Why do you chafe at my help in your career?”

Quentin shook his head, sighing. 

“I don’t. I only wanted to make you proud,” Quentin said. “To feel worthy of your love.”

Eliot pursed his lips. “It is something I give freely, earned or not.”

“I know that now.” _And it is a lesson you could stand to hear as well,_ Quentin thought, but it was not the time for such an argument.

They laid in silence a few more moments.

“I’m not sorry for wanting to give you everything,” Eliot said, stubbornness coloring his voice.

“You give so much, Eliot,” Quentin said, brushing aside a curl that had fallen in front of Eliot’s eyes. “What will you take for yourself?”

Eliot laughed softly. “Says the man who uprooted his entire life to be with me in a foreign city.”

Quentin shook his head. “There was nothing for me in Leipzig but the past. Coming here was the best thing for me, not a sacrifice. I felt as if I owed you my success– hoping that you would think your decision to bring me here was not for ought.”

Eliot’s jaw twitched but he didn’t reply. 

“After tonight,” Quentin continued. “I no longer have these feelings. I– I trust in your love, and trust that we work better together than alone.”

Eliot looked at him curiously them, a mixture of hope and pain in his gaze. Once he spoke, it faded.

“Hearing so makes me glad, my love.” He pulled Quentin close, and Quentin turned in his arms so that they were back to front once more, Eliot’s curls tickling the back of his neck. Quentin allowed his worries to fade as Eliot held him tight, one hand pressed to his heart. 

“You were heard tonight, Quentin,” Eliot murmured as they drifted, “Though your mind was elsewhere, you enchanted them with your song. I doubt the knight will be reliant on his prince patron for much longer.”

Quentin curled their fingers together over his belly, settling deeper into the soft mattress.

“My love, it was not the promise of patronage that lured this knight into your house.” Quentin yawned, their long day and late evening pulling him to slumber. “Nor the adoration of crowds the love on which I am reliant.”

Quentin felt the press of lips to his shoulder. 

“How lucky I am,” He heard as he succumbed to dreams, Eliot’s soft laugh sending him to a pleasant rest. “That even in sleep my lover gives me poetry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Notes on the music in this chapter:
> 
> The first movement of Robert Schumann's piano concerto (Have you guessed who Quentin is based on yet?) premiered on August 13, 1841, by Robert's wife, Clara Schumann at the Gewandhaus in Leipzig, Germany. It was first only the first movement (the first fifteen minutes of the recording we linked) and Robert called it "Fantasy for Piano and Orchestra." Obviously, our story shows a different, much grander debut than Schumann's, but in many ways it's very similar. For one, Robert did not promote his works by playing them himself, but through his wife Clara (she was his "right hand"), much like Eliot does here for Quentin. It is also much more cosmopolitan than his previous works, such as the "Fantasiestucke" and the "Papillons" in part because Schumann wished to write something for Clara that would showcase her magnanimous talent at the piano. At this point, their marriage was only about a year old, and this work represented their love and freedom from the struggles they had gone through to be married (Clara's father was a piece of work). Their story is beautiful but also tragic, whereas our story will have a very happy ending. 
> 
> The "Consolation in D Flat Major" by Franz Liszt (have you guessed who Eliot is based on yet?) is also a very special piece. Liszt modeled his Consolations after the "Nocturnes" by Frederich Chopin, and were a very large departure from the wild, virtuosic works Liszt usually composed. Many romantic composers based their works on works of art and poetry, and the Consolations may have been based upon Charles Sainte-Beuve's poems called "Consolations." These works show how much Liszt allowed himself to be inspired by other composers, and in doing so, he indirectly promoted their styles and works. Romanticism was unafraid of "copy-cat syndrome" that we have today. Once a style of music was deemed pleasant, many would compose in that style to satisfy the need, and the way Liszt did it helped many other composers find success, much like Eliot does for Quentin. 
> 
> We appreciate you hanging on tightly and clutching your pearls close to your chest, this ride might get a little bumpy! Thank you for every comment and kudos, we cherish them all.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hang on to your corsets because it's Christmas in August! This very special chapter is brought to you by yearning, craving, and nostalgic aesthetic Catholicism. 
> 
> Warnings for: Talk of religion and faith, references to child abuse
> 
> Enjoy! This chapter breaks up the pattern by switching points of view halfway through the chapter.

As Eliot predicted, life changed after the premiere of Quentin’s _Fantasy for Piano and Orchestra._ The social season loomed before them like an oncoming storm, and as more of the aristocracy returned from their country residences, more of Margo’s time was spent out of the house at social calls and functions. Eliot increased his residency at court from two days a week to four, he and Penny engaged heavily in preparing the music and entertainment for the Holiday celebrations at the palace, not to mention to approaching season. The presentation of new aristocracy, young lords and ladies now ripe for marriage, for one, and the largest ball of the season that was to follow required music for ceremonies and entertainment. Eliot oversaw it all, often acting as performer, manager, and conductor in the same shallow breath. 

But when he returned home in the evening, Quentin waiting for him, and he could exhale. 

“I missed you today,” Quentin panted one evening as he rode him, naked and flushed and languid in Eliot’s lap, their lovemaking as unhurried as the snow falling outside. “I– ah– my compositions all had a tinge of sadness.”

Eliot sat up, gripping Quentin’s hip with a firm hand to encourage his movements. He rose, and fell, and Eliot shuddered at the pleasure of his lover tight and slick around him. “I thought only of you all day, of kissing you–” He did, claiming Quentin’s open mouth before continuing. “Of holding you in my arms as you took your pleasure from me.”

Eliot’s words spurred Quentin on, as they often did. By the time they fell asleep the fire had died down low in the hearth, but they found themselves plenty warm.

Despite their evening passions, Quentin was not simply watching at the window and pining for Eliot while he worked. Eliot’s premonition had borne fruit: the performance of Quentin’s concerto had cast his quiet lover into the sharp jaws of fame, and the city of Vienna would never relinquish him now. Not two days had passed when Quentin began to receive notes from all social classes congratulating him on his success. He was quickly hired as a piano and composition teacher for a few daughters of the merchant class, two high-born ladies, and a young man with some promising talent at composition. He spent less time at the cafes and at the piano and more time traveling around the city with his bag stuffed with sheet music and slung heavily over his shoulder. 

Quentin loved teaching, and Eliot loved when Quentin loved anything.

“It was magnificent,” he said during dinner about two weeks after the performance. “Fraulein Violet has been told all her life that she could not play octaves, because of the very small nature of her hands, but I showed her a quick technique that made it instantly possible for her– Eliot, you should have seen how happy she was as we worked through the bagatelle and she was able to play the left hand– with the octaves added! And to think that it was in part my doing–” He took a bite of food, barely stopping the flow of information. “I have missed teaching– it is a joyous endeavor, don’t you think?”

“It is a joy to hear you so happy,” Eliot mused, sure that there were hearts in his eyes. “It is good that you are finding such success.”

And of _course_ it was good, Eliot needn’t even say it. He imagined Quentin was exceedingly charming with his students. He knew Fraulein Violet to be a pretty and eligible lady of twenty-three, the youngest of three sisters, her father the owner and supervisor of several successful textile ventures in Vienna, and he told Quentin so. It was good for Quentin to interact with others, especially ladies of his social class. 

Eliot smiled and nodded as Quentin continued, ignoring Margo’s knowing glare on the side of his face. 

Among his new students, Quentin’s music also gained traction. Sales of his _Fatasiestucke_ shot up suddenly, with Herr Bauer ordering a second printing. He also accepted Quentin’s _Papillons_ without persuasion from Eliot, publishing the entire set just as quickly as it could fly off of the shelves. Even more exciting, by mid-December many of Margo’s relations returned to their Vienna homes from the country. With his fashionable new music, Quentin’s name graced many a gilded invitation, Margo’s relations suddenly curious about Eliot’s new student living in his home. 

“I cannot _believe_ that you would schedule such a spectacle while we were engaged in the countryside, Herr Waugh,” one of Margo’s many cousins pouted as they mingled in her very fashionable sitting room. “A debut of a new concerto in November while half the city is away! An outrage.”

“Ah my lovely Lady Wolf, the only way to secure the royal theater is to do an off season performance,” Eliot said, raising his voice to the correct aristocratic volume, rounding his vowels and smoothing the consonants. “We would have had a difficult time performing while an opera was staged around us!”

The entire room laughed, clutching their chests elegantly and raising a glass to Eliot’s good humor and wit. Eliot was the first to admit that he flourished most with an audience, on or off the piano bench. 

“Of course, it was really Herr Coldwater’s doing, I was just the carrier of his music.” 

“Well, then, you must both treat us to a sampling of what we missed that evening!” Lady Wolf said with false moral coloring. “It is only right and just.”

Eliot raised his eyebrows at Quentin, silently asking permission. This was different from persuading Quentin to play for a few friends in the privacy of their own sitting room, this was a room full of aristocrats bored from uneventful summers in the country, teeth sharpened and hungry for gossip. Quentin was a tender cut for them to feast upon. 

“We should, Herr Waugh,” Quentin spoke up, his voice clear and strong. “How many times will we have the opportunity to play on two beautiful pianos such as these?”

Eliot smiled, the corners of his mouth magnetized by delight. “Too right.”

So they played together, Eliot the solo part and Quentin the orchestra, as they did in the parlor at home. They insisted on playing by memory, and Quentin’s sound was full and lush, giving the piano all the colors of a full orchestra. Eliot smiled as he entered the first theme, remembering Quentin’s story of the knight and his prince. 

This, collaborating openly with the man he loved, was a pleasure. This was the privilege he was given, to gift Quentin’s music to the world, and by extension, Quentin himself. 

They bowed together once they were finished, and Eliot’s heart sang as Quentin was swarmed with admirers, his face as red as a rose. 

Once sated with accolades and compliments, Eliot set himself back at the piano, as he always did, and segued into an arrangement of a familiar waltz. The partygoers rose with laughter and smiles as they sought partners to dance, just as they had months ago at his own party. Eliot expected Quentin to drift over to the piano, to seek out a brief moment of privacy among so many eyes, but when he looked up over the music stand his lover had been swept up by a young lady with dark brown hair, leading her somewhat shakily in the dance. 

Eliot pursed his lips, bringing his attention back to the keys. What a lovely thing, he thought. He was always encouraging Quentin to dance– there were never enough young men at these parties to make sure sure each lady had a partner. They had been dancing a lot in the evening, Eliot counting out the steps as Margo laughed from the sofa and Quentin stumbled over his own feet. It was good for him to put the skills to practical use, and he laughed with the rest of the merry-makers as Eliot finished the waltz with a flourish. Eliot watched as he smiled at his dance partner, accepting two glasses of champagne for them from a liveried footman. 

Quentin was his gift to the world, Eliot remembered as he stood to take another glass for himself. There was a certain level of selflessness that entailed to which he was not accustomed.

After the party, Todd waited with the carriage around the corner, and Quentin was warm and silly from the champagne as they walked. He laughed and talked of the evening, sounding for once as if he had truly enjoyed himself. Eliot kept his hands firmly behind his back as Quentin was likely to lace their fingers together and nuzzle his neck in this weakened state. Still, he was charming like this. 

“What a lovely party,” he drawled, his accent more rural and germanic from the drink. “I– I _told_ you that I could write a concerto.”

“I never doubted you,” Eliot returned, smiling generously. “I think you are referring to your other friends.”

“That’s true–” he hiccuped, and Eliot nearly burst out laughing. “Hey!”

Quentin turned, walking backwards, a treacherous move in his current state.

“I danced tonight,” he said, his face scrunched up with seriousness. “You are always telling me to dance, and I listened.”

“That you did.”

Quentin slowed his pace, letting Eliot get close to him. 

“Were you jealous?” He asked in a low voice. 

Eliot laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “Time for bed, I see.”

Eliot walked past him, avoiding Quentin’s honest and intoxicated gaze. Once inside the carriage, Eliot could barely draw the curtains before Quentin was half in his lap. 

“But were you?” Quentin entreated him, taking Eliot’s face between his two hands and turning him to face him. “Jealous? Would you rather we danced in front of the entire party? Just the two of us? Don’t you wish they could all watch me follow your lead as I was meant?”

Eliot’s heart ached, as if it were pulled in two directions by strings. 

“Of course I wish that– Q–” Eliot stopped, letting his eyes fall shut. This had been such a happy night, and Quentin was drunk, there was no need for Eliot to become upset– 

When he opened his eyes, Quentin’s hands had fallen from his face and he slept on Eliot’s shoulder, snoring softly. Eliot sighed, letting his head fall back as Todd spurred on the horses. 

The next morning Eliot kissed Quentin good morning and left him in bed to sleep off the rest of the champagne, pulling on his robe over his sleep shirt and padding softly to his study before Todd could come check on him. He would dress soon and formally greet the day, but something nagged at him. A new melody, come to him in a dream. 

The sun had barely risen when he sat at the piano, only the muffled sounds of Frau Schiller and the maids in the kitchen baking bread filtering through to the upstairs. Eliot smiled as he placed his left hand on the piano, finding the melody that had haunted his sleep. Starting on the dominant, it rose to the tonic of A-flat immediately, resting on that single note for half a phrase. Eliot sang it softly as it rose only a minor second for one beat, like a hand reaching out to touch and then drawing away, coming to rest back on A-flat. 

It was a simple melody, perhaps simpler than anything he had ever composed. He drew his hands away from the keys as if they burned him, not daring to continue it. It was a mournful tune, and felt like a goodbye, like he was remembering something he had lost. He wasn’t ready for Quentin to only be a memory. 

Not yet. 

He wrote it down, storing the bit of manuscript paper in his attaché, knowing that no good melody should be wasted, no matter how sorrowful. He heard Margo’s bell ring from upstairs, signaling to Fen that she was awake. He rose, climbing the stairs to ready himself for the day. 

Breakfast was a quiet affair, only he and Margo while Quentin slept. A usual occasion, but one that had been become rarer as of late. Quentin was not what Eliot would call ‘early to rise,’ but he had grown more adjusted to a fuller schedule now that his students depended on him. 

Margo buttered a thick slice of bread, eyeing him. “Christmas approaches so quickly.”

Eliot hummed his assent. Todd brought him the morning newspaper, and he scanned down the page for interesting stories. Murder, mayhem, and music critics– all things that set his teeth on edge. 

Margo sighed dramatically. “I suppose we’ll just have a small celebration this year, something modest.”

That caught his attention, and Eliot let the paper fall to the table with a dramatic clearing of his throat.

“Modest?”

Margo shrugged, returning to her eggs, but unable to stifle her smile. Eliot squinted at her, and fell right into her trap. 

“Todd?”

“Yes sir?”

“Send a letter to Herr Krowler. We must have an update on the status of our Christmas trees. I would like to know when they will be ready.”

“Very good, sir.”

Todd left, and Eliot poured himself more coffee.

“Trees?” Margo asked, smiling conspiratorially. “As in more than one?”

“We had one tree last year,” Eliot said. “Am I to do the same thing two years in a row?”

“I would tremble to think.”

“How _awful_ that would be.”

They shared a moment of contented silence while tucking into their eggs. 

Margo dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “Does Quentin know the extent to which we keep Christmas?”

Eliot placed his knife and fork neatly on his plate, signaling to Franz that he was finished. He crossed his legs under the table as he took a sip of fresh coffee. 

“I never give away my secrets.”

Eliot put Quentin’s drunken ramblings out of his mind as Christmas decorating began in earnest. The staff took it upon themselves to deep-clean the house in anticipation for guests. Margo cancelled her calls to spend one precious afternoon hand-writing invitations for their Christmas Eve party. They planned menus and studied the intricate art of hanging garlands and picked candle colors. 

Two days before Christmas Eve, Eliot slipped away from court, meeting Quentin at the city’s edge with one of his old overcoats. 

“It’s been years since I’ve been on horseback,” Quentin said as he mounted one of the leased horses Eliot had arranged. “I might make a fool of myself.”

“Impossible,” Eliot said as he swung his leg over his own mount. “It is a skill one never forgets.”

The houses shrank in size and in number, and the city melted into the countryside. Cobblestone cottages dotted the side of the muddy road, and a soft blanket of snow covered the ground from a storm the night before. Eliot took a deep breath of the fresh winter air, spurring his horse on to a quicker walk. 

“What a delightfully brisk day,” he said, looking back and smiling as Quentin fiddled with his stirrup. “It feels good to get out of the city.”

“Indeed–” Quentin said, comically breathless and blowing hair out of his face as he sat up. “Can I ask again where we are going?”

“All will be clear in good time, my friend.” Eliot switched the reins to his other hand as he gave his lovely brown mare a pat. 

After about an hour of leisurely travel, they came to a small clearing dotted with another cottage and a vast forest thick with pine trees behind it. A large pile of firewood sat beside the house, along with recently harvested evergreen trees leaning against the shed. A man, dressed in thick winter wools, emerged from the cottage with a rattle of the door hinge, trotting to meet them at the gate. 

“Herr Waugh!” He called. “It’s good to see you again, sir.” 

Eliot raised a gloved hand in greeting. “Herr Krowler, always a pleasure. How are the little ones? And your lovely wife?”

Krowler waved a hand and smiled, taking the reins from Eliot’s and Quentin’s horses as soon as they dismounted. “All good, thank you! And your visit means we are close to Christmas, which excites them greatly.”

“An excitement we share in, I assure you.” Eliot stood aside, beckoning Quentin forward. “This is Quentin Coldwater, a student of mine. It’s his first Christmas in Vienna, and I wish to show him our traditions.”

“Wonderful! Let me just find a nice warm spot for your horses and then we shall head out.”

“Out?” Quentin asked as Krowler walked away, leading their horses to a small barn. “What are you planning?”

“Patience,” Eliot said, his breath fogging up in the cold air. “With patience comes the reward.”

Quentin rolled his eyes, but laughed, allowing Krowler and Eliot to lead him away from the small homestead and into the woods. The homesteader led the way, allowing Eliot to briefly hold Quentin’s gloved hand among the rough terrain. 

“Just a little farther now!” Krowler called. 

Quentin didn’t ask again of their destination. Instead, he gazed in wonder at the idyllic wilderness around them, his earnest excitement making Eliot’s teeth ache from its sweetness. He pointed out the names of birds he knew, and had to be steered back to the path more than once in his over-excitement. The natural world clearly held magic for Quentin, his leanings toward the fantastical only made more apparent in the primitive forest. Eliot was glad to indulge him; the sun was high, casting a warmth that melted the snow from the trees. Miniature streams of water ran through the path, muddying their old boots. 

After about a half-hour’s walk, they came to a small break in the trees. A clear patch in full view of the sunlight, it housed three young evergreens, their branches thick and green with needles. 

“These are the three I’ve been tending for you, Herr Waugh,” Krowler said, leaning against one of the trees. “I’ve been trimming them back a full month now, should be a perfect shape for you and Lady Margo.”

Eliot smiled, taking in the lovely trio of trees. “They’re perfect, Krowler, thank you so much.”

“Is one to be displayed in the house?” Quentin asked. 

Eliot laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “ _All three_ are to be displayed in our house, with the most flamboyant decorations Margo can devise hung upon their boughs.”

“Amazing,” Quentin said, smiling. His eyes crinkled at the corners, and Eliot’s heart was warmed despite the chill in the air. 

“They shall be like the three kings, come to see Christ in his manger,” Eliot said with bravado, going to stand beside the tallest tree. “A perfect story, with their differing heights, wouldn’t you say?”

Krowler and Quentin both laughed at Eliot’s jest, and Krowler moved to get his tools. 

“Right, I’ll have these chopped down and ready for you right quick–”

“Surely we can chop them down ourselves, right Eliot?” Quentin said, turning to Eliot. “It would round out the experience quite nicely, don’t you think?”

Quentin looked at him, his smile so honest and true. Quentin was filled with awe at the natural world, as was Eliot, but he hadn’t held an ax in his hands since…

He smiled, the muscles pulling slightly at his face. 

“Why not?” Eliot said, and Quentin beamed again. 

They shed their overcoats and Herr Krowler provided them with two sharp axes, happy to be spared the hard work. The grip of the handle was smooth against Eliot’s palm, chafing against old callouses. Once his hands had been as rough as the bricks his father used to lay. 

“Eliot?” 

Eliot looked up. Quentin watched him curiously, his beaming gaze now shadowed by worry. Eliot smiled, standing taller. 

“Shall we?”

Despite Quentin’s enthusiasm, the young composer found the actual work of chopping down a tree to be quite challenging. Eliot laughed and rolled up his sleeves, taking down first Quentin’s half-hewn tree and then another, his swings growing more confident as he found the rhythm once more. It was nothing he hadn’t done a hundred times in his boyhood with his brothers, and the memories served him well. The third he and Quentin shared, taking turns swinging at the trunk until the tall tree fell to the ground. 

“I’ll be back right quick with the wagon to take us back, you gentlemen sit tight!” Krowler called as he jogged lightly away from them towards the road, leaving them alone in the quiet woods.

“I hadn’t thought–” Quentin panted, taking a seat on a wide stump. “That felling a tree would be so cerebral. And vigorous.”

Eliot laughed, taking a gulp of water from a canteen Krowler had provided. “I thought you looked rather dashing, swinging the ax with every ounce of your strength, your jacket gone and your hair escaping from its binds.”

Quentin snorted, accepting a drink himself. “Every ounce of my strength clearly wasn’t enough. And besides.” He looked at Eliot, giving him an overt once-over with his eyes, “It is you who looks dashing right now.”

Eliot laughed once more and took a seat beside him on the stump. He leaned back on his hands, looking up through the trees. A squirrel leaped over a thick branch, narrowly avoiding where a cardinal pecked at the bark. Even in the stark cold of winter, there was still life in the forest. 

“My father once took my brothers and I to find a Christmas tree in the woods,” Eliot said, letting the words drift from him. “They ran through the woods like wild boar– yelling and making a fuss. Usually, when we were in the forest we had to be quiet, to help with the hunting, you see.”

Quentin made a noise of assent, setting the water canteen by their feet. He was listening. 

“I was young, no more than eight,” Eliot continued. “And I remember I couldn’t stop looking at the way the snow sat in the trees, how it lined the bare branches… I could _hear_ it.”

Quentin inched over, letting their fingers come to touch against the wood of the stump. “What do you mean?”

Eliot laughed in spite of himself. “It’s not easy to explain. It was as if the snow made music in the silence, the way it floated– the way the air made space around it. It sparkled and shone in the cold morning sun– I couldn’t look away.”

“That’s a nice memory.”

Eliot shrugged, looking up. The snow wasn’t quite so pure now. It melted in the afternoon sun, running in rivulets down the tree trunks. 

“You don't…” Quentin started, seeming to be choosing his words very carefully. “You don’t talk about your boyhood. At least not to me.”

Eliot sighed. This wasn’t entirely unexpected. 

“There isn’t much to tell.” He swallowed against a lump rising in his throat. “I would rather look to the future, as I am so lucky to be where I am.”

“I only wish for you to trust me.”

On another man those words would be a fight, but on Quentin they were a plea.

“I trust you with my life,” Eliot said, leaning their shoulders together. “I trust you with with Margo– not that she needs taking care of.” They laughed, and Eliot drank in Quentin’s smile. “I don’t wish to dwell in the past, my love.”

“I won’t pressure you,” Quentin said, his smile warm and kind as his heart. “But I wish to know you. All of you. In time, I hope you will let me.”

Eliot didn’t know how to respond, so he sat silent until the rattle of Herr Krowler’s wagon started up the road.

“Come.” He stood, offering a hand to help Quentin rise. “Let’s give him a hand, and then we can return home with stories of our day of manual labor. Margo will be swooning at the sight of us.”

They laughed, and the spell was broken. They cheerfully helped load the wagon with the three trees and road on the back of it back to the quaint homestead. They accepted a cup of warm cider from Frau Krowler, her three little girls running circles around her skirts. Before long, it was time to saddle their horses and make their way back to the city. 

“It must be peaceful,” Quentin said as their horses walked slowly back to the main road. “Living here, away from the bustle of the city.”

Eliot shrugged. “Such quiet can be soothing. Or lonesome.”

Quentin nodded. “I understand that– growing up in the country did little to help me find friends as a boy. But, the Krowlers seem to be such a charming family. I imagine they keep each other happy in their company, wouldn’t you say?”

Eliot didn’t respond right away, remembering how his own mother’s hands had looked as she kneaded dough for their bread, how those same hands had sewn his clothes and the clothes of his brothers and sister. They had cracked and bled from work, the joints thick and arthritic by the time she was a woman of thirty-five. She had always been tired, so tired, tired even as Eliot’s father would yell and throw pans to the ground, scaring him right out of the house-- when he had been lucky enough to escape. 

“Perhaps they do,” Eliot said.

He felt Quentin’s gaze on him as the countryside gave way to the bustling of the city once more, the sites and sounds of its many residents serving to drown out his thoughts. 

* * *

In the hours leading up to December twenty-fifth, Quentin watched as Eliot led a charge in his own home, transforming it from a fashionable, cosmopolitan townhouse into a Christmas wonderland. Quentin himself hung garlands on every mantel, nestled candles wherever more light was needed, and reached up high to hang ivy from the windows. One afternoon, Margo escorted Quentin around the dazzling Christmas market, each stall overflowing with beautiful things to tempt any gift-giver. 

“Have you thought about what you will get Eliot?” Margo asked as they walked through the snowy street. “Will you write him a song?”

Quentin laughed. “I think not. He has gotten enough of my music already. I was thinking…”

He trailed off, drifting over to a stall selling stacks of books. They were bound in colorful jackets to attract buyers– novels, books on the natural sciences, translations of the plays of Shakespeare– anything a discerning reader could want to hang from their Christmas tree.

Quentin picked up a book of poetry, thumbing through the first few pages. 

“I must tell you,” Margo said, coming up behind him. “Eliot isn’t one to read for pleasure.”

Quentin nodded. This he knew– despite his genius intellect and mastery of music and languages, Eliot much preferred it when Quentin read to him. Still, Eliot always commented on Quentin’s _poetry._ He flipped through a few more pages, and found one poem only three stanzas long. After reading it, he snapped the book shut, reaching into his pocket for the coin to purchase it. 

They returned home shortly after that, and Eliot waited for them at the dinner table. Quentin sprinted up the stairs, hiding the little book beneath his bed to be wrapped.

On Christmas Eve morning, Herr Krowler returned to deliver the three trees Eliot had chosen right to their door, and with Quentin and Todd’s help, successfully secured them to heavy iron stands in the parlor. They made a charming trio, what with one so tall and slender it nearly reached the ceiling, another shorter and fuller, and the last falling somewhere in between. 

“It’s us!” Eliot said to a delighted crowd of partygoers that evening. They held glasses of spiced punch and the parlor was warm and comfortable from the roaring fire. Colorful ribbons and sparkling stars hung from each tree, along with candles dripping wax onto the evergreen branches. “The shortest one is of course the beautiful Lady Waugh, and the one in the middle is my long suffering student, Herr Coldwater!”

Everyone doubled over laughing, and Margo shook her head. 

“That means the truly gangly one is you, Herr Waugh!” She shouted over the laughter, eliciting a toast.

“To the tall and gangly one,” said Lord Rolf Hanson, Lady Sophia a jewel on his arm in a dark red satin gown. 

They all raised their glasses, and Quentin took another sip of his punch. He felt rather flushed, and set the glass down on the side table for safe keeping, not wanting to get too drunk tonight. It was past ten o'clock, and he had already performed selections from his _Fantasiestucke,_ and led the party in singing every German carol that he could remember from his childhood. Margo looked beautiful, Eliot was the most handsome man in attendance, and Quentin could scarcely remember that at this time last year he had only just arrived in Leipzig, alone for Christmas in a drafty boarding house, his invitation to Alice’s Christmas party sitting ignored on his desk. 

Another hour went by, and then another, and several guests had already left to tend to their own children or decorate their own trees. Margo stood near the piano, conversing with her cousin, but Eliot was nowhere to be seen. He checked the front door, but found only a couple putting on the wraps before they braved the outdoors. Returning to the parlor, he strode over to Margo. 

“Forgive me, my Lady, Lady Hanson, but have you seen Eliot?” Quentin asked.

Margo cocked her head, looking wistful. “He has his own traditions.” She glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was a quarter to midnight. “You might catch him by the door if you hurry.”

Quentin was confused, but left the warm and cheerful parlor to glance out the front window. Sure enough, Eliot was dressed in his coat and hat, slowly walking away from the house. Quentin blinked, watching him get farther and farther away before moving to grab his own coat and scarf from the stand and stepping out into the snow. 

“Eliot!” He called, turning his collar up against the cold.

Eliot turned, frowning until Quentin caught up to him. 

“Why did you leave?” he asked, tugging on his gloves. 

Eliot beckoned for him to walk beside him. “Old habits. Come, we’re going to be late.”

Eliot led him down the quiet street, and soon they joined a crowd migrating towards the city center, some dressed in finery and others in rags. Bells rang out clear in the frigid air, and the spires of Saint Stephen’s Cathedral loomed in the distance. 

“Are we going to mass?” Quentin chanced, pulling up his collar. 

Eliot nodded, smiling. He steered Quentin down the street with a hand to the small of his back, the shadows coming off the street lamps serving to keep them in partial darkness. The crowds pressed in, and they waited their turn as what seemed like half of Vienna filtered into the Cathedral. 

Quentin had never been to a Catholic service, and felt a wicked inner satisfaction of rebellion as he took his seat in the hard wooden pew. Looking around at the many icons and statues depicting saints and the Holy Virgin, he knew in his heart that his Lutheran mother would be absolutely mortified. The beauty of it all astounded him, however. The gilded ceiling and the gleaming beams came together at a seemingly endless amount of points, as thought they looked up to a sky full of golden stars.

Once all were seated, the organ began a thunderous prelude, and mass had begun. 

Eliot pulled a rosary from his pocket and wrapped it around his hand as the procession began. The beads were plain wood and looked worn, unlike most of Eliot’s things that had an aura of expense around them. They stood for a while, and then sat. As the priest mumbled his prayers and blessings in an indecipherable Latin, Eliot’s lips moved silently, mouthing the words to the lord’s prayer and another Quentin didn’t know. 

From the loft above them a choir of boys and men dressed in white robes [ sang](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D1QjkhENZg8), their clear voices filling every corner of the cathedral with echoing sound. It was like nothing Quentin had ever heard before. Unseen in the choir loft, it was as if the music came from angels in heaven. Quentin closed his eyes to better absorb it. Beside him, Eliot let their shoulders touch, and Quentin knew he felt the same. 

After many readings and prayers and call and response _Alleluias_ from the celebrant to the choir— all in Latin— it was time for the Eucharist, and the congregation began to rise and take to their knees at the front of the church to receive. Quentin shifted so as to let Eliot through, but Eliot didn’t move. 

“Aren’t you going to go up?” Quentin whispered over the sustained tones of the organ. 

The rosary beads bit into Eliot’s knuckles.

Eliot shook his head, leaning in to whisper. “I’m hardly in a state of grace, my love.”

Quentin knew not how to respond to such a statement, so he only watched as the rest of the faithful lined up to receive their helping of Christ, and tried not to think about what a morbid tradition Catholics kept. 

Once Eucharist concluded, mass ended with another song from the choir and the organ’s postlude. Eliot crossed himself before standing, beckoning for Quentin to follow as they made their way from the church. 

Once they were free of the crowds, Eliot turned to him. 

“Any thoughts?” He asked with a smile. “Was it as mystical and indulgent as the Protestants would have you believe?”

Quentin laughed, remembering the sterile churches of his youth. “If you think me a devout Lutheran, I’m sorry to say that you have been led astray. It was lovely, especially the music. But,” He stopped for a moment, tapping away snow that had almost crept inside his boot. “How come Lady Margo does not accompany you?”

“She did, the first year of our marriage. It was lovely to share it with her, but she is not a Catholic by birth, and I don’t wish to impose on her own traditions. She will have waited up for us, she always does.”

“You have never gone to mass before, on normal Sundays.” Quentin said, voice quiet. “Why now?”

“I…” Eliot started, clearing his throat. “I always enjoyed Midnight Mass in my youth. The church was the first place I heard music, not counting my mother’s singing voice.”

“Yet you do not take communion.” Quentin said carefully. “You think you are not in the…’state of grace’.”

Eliot laughed, though it was a dry, tired sort of sound. 

“I am not flagellating myself over our connection behind closed doors, Quentin. Far from it,” he assured him. “Yet I do not take it on myself to defy the Church either. I am content to follow their proscription, when I deign to participate at all. I consider mass to be an aesthetic venture, and perhaps a nostalgic one.”

They walked slowly, and Quentin waited as Eliot gathered his thoughts.

“Even in our modest church, there was a choir. They sang such beautiful music, I wanted to know it. I wanted to be able to make such music, if I could.”

The snow crunched under their boots as Eliot spoke, telling a story of a boy, small for his age, who stared wistfully at the choir loft in church and listened raptly as his mother and sister sang to pass the time while doing chores. He sang whenever he could– as he chopped wood for the fire, as he handed his father stones for the new house he built, and as he readied himself for bed each night. 

He wore rough, simple clothes suitable for a craftsman’s son, and his hair curled wildly around his ears no matter how hard he tried to tame it. His father was a hard man, one who craved drink and whose temper led to harsh words and even harsher blows. The boy was supposed to stay quiet, be obedient, and concentrate on learning his father’s trade. He was meant to grow to be tall and strong enough to build castles and walls for richer men to keep others out, but his mind always strayed to thoughts of music. 

“We lived on the estate of a minor Lord, near Pest, and my father was rebuilding his garden wall,” he said, the words coming quickly, as if he could not tell the story fast enough. “I was ten, and my father sent me to fetch water from the cook. I was a nervous child– but curious, and I got lost on my way. I found myself in the Lord’s sitting room, faced with a lovely pianoforte.”

“Did you play it?” 

Eliot nodded. “I did. I had never seen such a contraption in my life and yet… it felt familiar, as if I had known it in a previous lifetime. I tried to recreate a song I had heard in church. I found the notes– and then found other notes to accompany the melody in harmony. My first composition, I still think of it.” He smiled halfway. “I remember I didn’t know how to use my thumbs, so I hooked them underneath the wood instead, as if I needed to hang on tight.”

They laughed, and it looked as though Eliot would stop. He was flushed from the cold and possibly embarrassment, as if he had said too much. Quentin let their arms brush, bringing their bodies infinitesimally closer as they walked. 

“What happened then?”

“I was found out, of course,” he said, his voice far away, remembering. “Lord Fogg himself had been watching and listening, and started applauding as soon as I finished playing. I was so scared, I thought of the whipping my father would give me once we were home—“ he shivered. “There was a score on the music stand, and Lord Fogg asked me if I would like to read music, as well as play it.”

“What did you say?”

Eliot laughed again, this time with more disbelief, as if he were telling another man’s story.

“I didn't even know how to read letters, at that point– I told him so, and he said it was no matter. That I would know how to read both letters and music very soon.”

“The rest, why, I struggle to even remember, it all happened so fast. My father wasn’t supportive– he would rather die a poor tradesman than be beholden to a Lord, but Fogg insisted on becoming my sponsor. A week later he came to collect me and I began training with the finest teacher in Hungary, piano and harpsichord and composition, and then I was brought to Vienna where I would perform for the aristocracy. I was their darling, their prodigy they could dress to look pretty and perform for their parties for their fashionable friends. It was… mostly luck, looking back on it now. There was no reason that it should have happened to me, but it did.”

“It’s because you were meant to create music, Eliot.”

Eliot swallowed, nodding, but looked unconvinced. Vulnerability was etched across his features.

“If a higher power truly controls us, I suppose that could be so,” he said. “I made many men rich in those years, whether or not divine intervention was involved."

They walked in silence for a while. Quentin tried to picture Eliot younger, less worldly. A boy from the Hungarian countryside suddenly thrust into the world of kings and queens and ordered to entertain at their whim. Quentin thought of his own provincial upbringing, how little anyone had expected of him and how little they had thought of him. 

He wondered which circumstance was worse. 

“Fogg died when I turned twenty, leaving me a small sum of money to start my adult career. I owe… everything to him.”

“What of your family?” Quentin asked as the townhouse became visible in the distance. “They must be proud, now that you have found such success.”

Eliot laughed, his expression turning dark. “My father was never going to be proud of me, and that had little to do with my chosen career path.”

“What do you mean?”

They stopped in front of the house, a warm glow of light coming from the parlor window where Quentin knew Margo waited.

Eliot sighed, shoving his hands deeper in his pockets. “This is not good talk for Christmas Eve.”

A dismissal. 

Eliot’s expression softened. If they had been inside, he would have placed a hand on Quentin’s face. Quentin could feel it, like a phantom touch. 

“Don’t worry for me, darling,” he said instead, quiet as the snow. “These memories cannot hurt me now.”

 _But they do_ Quentin wanted to entreat, to prod, but he stopped himself, and Eliot started to walk up the path to the house. 

Margo had waited up for them, as Eliot promised. She wore her dressing gown and sat near the fire in the parlor, sipping idly at an amber glass of brandy. She asked them about the mass and they made some conversation, but as her words slurred and her eyes began to slip shut Eliot stood and took her arm, leading her to bed. 

“I will join you soon,” he promised Quentin as he disappeared into Margo’s room. 

Once inside his room, Quentin shed his jacket and sat on the bed, waiting. Suddenly, he felt nervous. Eliot returned quietly, some five minutes later. The door creaked when it opened. 

“How’s Margo?” Quentin asked. 

Eliot smiled, standing in the flickering candlelight. “I imagine she will have a headache for Christmas as well as pudding, but she’s in good spirits.”

“That’s good to hear.”

Eliot nodded once, the corners of his mouth tensing as his smile faded. He fidgeted, still fully dressed in his evening outfit. Usually, Todd helped him undress before he joined Quentin. 

“You said–” Eliot started, stopping to swallow. Quentin saw his jaw work in the candlelight. “The other day in the woods. You said that you wished to know me.”

Quentin sat up straighter. “Yes. I did.”

A moment passed. Eliot’s arms hung by his sides, his hands open. It had always enchanted Quentin how both of their hands preserved the mold of piano position, their fingers and thumbs curved inward even when they weren’t playing. It was one of the few things their bodies had in common. 

Eliot clenched those hands now. 

“Did you mean it?”

Quentin stood, walking to where Eliot was and softly closing the door behind him. Without the shadows from the hall, a singular candle bathed them in soft golden light. Quentin rested one hand on Eliot’s chest, the other on his face, letting his thumb draw small circles against the grain of the stubble there. 

“With all of my heart,” Quentin breathed.

Eliot took a long, shaking breath, leaning into Quentin’s touch. He took Quentin’s hand in one of his own and brought his palm to his mouth, pressing one kiss to the middle. He let it fall away, and Quentin rested it on Eliot’s shoulder. 

“About my father–” Eliot started, his words sounding hollow, as if they could float away should he not hold on tight enough. “I haven’t spoken to him since I was eighteen. While I studied under Fogg’s sponsorship I– I would return home for Christmas each year. My father saw how I changed. I dressed like a gentleman, one who could read and write. I spoke French and German more than Hungarian, and was already _much_ taller than him— each time more and more changed from the shy boy he once abused. At first he simply refused to speak to me, making every family Christmas more miserable than the last.”

Quentin nodded, tamping down the pain he felt for the younger Eliot.

Eliot continued. “To his credit, I was flagrant, making sure he knew that I would never be like him. I dressed even more outlandishly than I do now. I was to be a cosmopolitan gentleman, and held myself as such. One Christmas– he called me– well. It is not a word I would say to someone so civilized as you, and I'm not sure how it translates into German, but I’m sure you can imagine.” 

Quentin rested his hands on the lapels of his jacket, stroking his chest. 

“So he knows? About you being…”

Eliot smiled, but there was no joy in it.

“My flamboyance has not always taken such a masculine slant,” he said, and Quentin could imagine, despite the broadness of the chest under his hands. “Especially when I was a youth, I was slim and fey and too openly interested in the habits of women. Perhaps I could have been forgiven, had I worn homespun and cut stone and fathered children as a good Hungarian man ought, but that was never to be.” 

Eliot cleared his throat. “So, yes, he made it plain he knew, and what he thought of me. I didn’t return for Christmas after that, and I haven’t returned since. I send my mother and my sister something pretty every year, but even their letters were far and few between, and I haven’t received any word at all since I wrote to them of my wedding three years ago. They live in the same cottage, in the same village.”

“What of your siblings?”

Eliot shrugged under his hands. “I have a younger brother, Andras, is his name– we got along well enough as children, but even he has not contacted me since I was last home.”

“I’m so sorry,” Quentin curled his fingers over his heart. “You didn’t deserve that. You don’t deserve that, even now. You are a good man with a good heart.”

“I know my sister has since had her first child.” Eliot cleared his throat. “Despite my aversions, I had expected perhaps to hear from them once I had taken a wife. That I might finally approximate some version of a son my father could tolerate. Yet they have never even met Margo, nor have they asked after any children.”

He took a shuddering breath. 

“I fear I may be wholly dead to them, and that no atonement could ever compensate for the man I have chosen to be in their eyes.”

Quentin wrapped his arms around Eliot then, pulling him close. Eliot squeezed him back around his middle, breathing deep against Quentin’s neck. Quentin felt the drip of his tears soak into his shirt. It was...shocking, and beautiful, to hold Eliot like this. To keep him safe while he drained out some of the hurt. Quentin could imagine suddenly exactly why Margo and Eliot celebrated Christmas so fervently, surrounding themselves with friends when Eliot most keenly felt his banishment from the place he had once called home. 

He held Eliot, and felt the ache of his lover’s pain, but also the joy of being allowed to slip behind his “best” and see his heart, if only for a moment.

After a few minutes, Eliot retreated, his eyes hard and ashamed. 

“I should– this is very silly of me.” He swiped hard at the tears staining his cheeks. “I should go change, ready myself for bed–” 

“Let me,” Quentin said, brushing Eliot’s hands away. “Please Eliot, allow me to take care of you now.”

Slowly, with parted lips and heavy eyes, Eliot nodded.

Vulnerability settled on Eliot’s face as Quentin undressed him, taking care to not crease any of his fine clothes. He stripped him down to his shirtsleeves, delicately unfastening his cufflinks and setting them on the bureau. He then sat him on the bed and kneeled to unbuckle his shoes, setting them to the side. The braces of his trousers came next. Quentin eased them off his shoulders and let them fall to the bed, encouraging him to lift up as he slipped the trousers from his legs. Down to only his linens, Eliot looked suddenly small. 

Quentin quickly undressed himself and turned down the bed covers, tucking himself up behind Eliot and wrapping his arms around him. Eliot relaxed. His shoulders melted back against Quentin’s chest and Quentin pressed a kiss to the back of his neck. 

“So you know now,” Eliot said, his voice small in the darkness. “That I am little more than a Hungarian peasant boy, and now an orphan at that.”

“You are so much more than that, to the world and to me,” Quentin said. “But it is part of you, and I cherish it as such.”

Another pause. Quentin felt the rise and fall of Eliot’s chest under his hand.

“Do you?”

“I do.” 

They laid in silence for a few minutes, settling in as the emotions of the night settled around them in turn. 

“Thank you for taking me with you tonight,” Quentin said, just as sleep started to weigh his eyes “To Mass.”

Eliot exhaled, lacing their fingers together against his belly. “I had hoped you would follow me.”

“Really?”

Eliot nodded, shy. Quentin regretted that his eyes were hidden to him now. He was so soft and pliant and in his arms. 

“It’s been a long time since I attended a church service,” Quentin said. “The music at my home parish was not nearly as ethereal.”

“They were even more beautiful in Hungary.” Eliot laughed softly. “But there is something about a boys choir that the Protestants just can’t duplicate with their congregational singing.”

Quentin shared in his laugh, dropping into silence for a few moments. Quentin had a thought.

“I didn’t entirely neglect my studies of scripture,” he said. “There was a particular psalm I always favored, though I don’t know it in the original Latin, as you might.”

“Hm?” Eliot asked, and Quentin heard the sleep in his voice as well. “Which one?”

“I believe it went something like… _‘Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth, for your love is sweeter than wine.’”_

Eliot hummed in recognition. _“‘My beloved is mine and I am his,’”_ he recited. “I favor that one as well.”

Quentin smiled against him, propping his head up to better whisper the scant words he remembered in Eliot’s ear. The words were thick in his mouth from the exhaustion of the day’s emotions, but he felt an other-worldly drive to say them.

 _“‘I sought him whom my soul loves, I sought him, but I found him not. I will seek him whom my soul loves.”_ He pressed a kiss to Eliot’s temple, saying his next words against his skin. _“‘I entreat you, if you find my beloved, that you tell him I am sick with love.’”_

Eliot shivered, laughing softly, as if to defuse the moment. Quentin pressed ever closer. He didn’t want to make light– this wasn’t humor; it wasn’t even lust. This was something more. Something that could rip the heart straight from Quentin’s chest. 

He _knew_ this man, and this man knew him. 

“Quentin,” Eliot breathed, his eyelashes wet with unshed tears. 

Quentin dipped down to kiss his lips. 

“Eliot,” Quentin whispered. Gone were the ancient words, and his poetry. They had served their purpose, breaking him open, rendering him raw and without defense. “Eliot, I love you.”

In the moment before sleep took him, he felt Eliot tense. His hand, ever laced with Quentin’s fingers, squeezed just shy of too tight. 

* * *

“What a fine day to celebrate the birth of our lord and savior,” Margo declared on Christmas morning, her voice still hoarse from all the merry-making of the evening before. “Is there coffee? Eliot, get the pot.”

“Right away, Bambi,” Eliot said, going to fetch the silver pot from the buffet table and pouring Margo and Quentin a generous serving. Before straightening, he dropped a kiss to Quentin’s neck. 

“Have I told you Merry Christmas, my love?”

Quentin smiled. “Only twice now.”

Eliot had been different with him upon waking, his movements soft and tender as always, but laced with a certain shyness that came from an evening of confessions. Eliot had let him know him completely under the cold light of the moon, and now that the sun shone, retreated only slightly. 

Margo banged her fist on the table. “I _demand_ a virtuous and holy celebration on this sacred day, so that means no kissing, you two!”

They laughed and partook in an informal Christmas brunch, prepared and left by the servants that morning before departing to spend the day with their own families. After eating their fill, they collected the dishes and brought them down to the kitchen, then retreated to the parlor for presents. 

“Quentin first,” Margo said, pointing to the two packages tied to the medium-sized tree, both wrapped in bright blue paper and tied with wide silver ribbon. Quentin untied them both from the bough, taking a seat next to the piano as Eliot lit a cigarette, watching him. 

He unwrapped the gift from Margo first, finding a slim red box beneath the paper. He opened it, lifting a beautiful fountain pen from the bundle of tissue. The handle was smooth, with one side covered in blue and white mother-of-pearl. It caught the light, the new steel nib smooth and perfect for precision writing. 

“I grew tired of watching you use that tired old stationary set from Leipzig,” Margo said. “Now you won’t have so much ink on your hands.”

Quentin smiled, lifting the pen to the light to admire how it gleamed. “Thank you, my lady– it’s beautiful.”

Next, he opened Eliot’s present, a sterling silver cigarette case carved with an intricate design of music notes and roses, their stems intertwining. It was similar to Eliot’s; he must have seen him admiring it. He pronounced it the most splendid cigarette case that he had ever seen, and Eliot only smiled, nodding mischievously.

“Open it.”

Quentin did, his brow furrowed, but softened when he saw the engraving on the inside. 

_To my most Beloved friend, Quentin Coldwater, on this Christmas day in the year eighteen hundred and thirty-six._

“I shall keep it with me always,” Quentin said, setting the case carefully on the table and standing to embrace Eliot, pressing a kiss to his lips. 

“I’m glad you like it,” Eliot said when Quentin settled next to him on the sofa. 

Margo opened her presents next, tearing through the paper as a child does. She fawned over the measure of lace Quentin had picked out for her (“Are you sure you like it? Fraulein Violet assured me that lace was the best gift for any lady–” “Oh Quentin, it’s lovely! Eliot, look at the details in the stitching!”) and from Eliot she received a sapphire brooch resting in a woven silver backing. 

“You will find another package in our marriage bed upstairs,” Eliot explained as he helped fasten the brooch to her collar. “Something that just arrived from France yesterday morning.”

“Eliot don’t be indecent!” Margo scolded, laughing as Quentin blushed scarlet over the thought of her wearing some sort of French undergarments Eliot had chosen for her.

“I suppose I’m next?” Eliot said as they cleared the wrapping paper away from the coffee table. He opened Margo’s present first, finding a bottle of rare and expensive brandy for their cabinet. It was a traditional gift between them, Eliot explained as he kissed his wife and admired the elegant glass work that contained the liquor. Finally, he lifted Quentin’s gift from the tree, wrapped in plain brown paper and secured with twine. 

“Hmm, heavy,” he remarked playfully, testing the weight of the package in his hands. Suddenly, Quentin began to sweat. What if Eliot hated it? What if Margo had been right, and Eliot would be forced to be polite over Quentin’s un-suitable gift?

Eliot unwrapped the gift, setting the paper aside as he read the title written along the spine. 

“‘On Love and her Fellows’,” he read, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. He looked up at Quentin. “Have you gotten me poetry?”

Quentin blanched. “Do you not like it? I can return it– find you something more to your liking–”

Eliot silenced him with a finger to his mouth. “I love it– silly man. Poetry, gifted me to me by my poet-lover. What could be more utterly romantic?”

Quentin exhaled, relieved. He had scratched out an inscription just that morning after waking. Eliot flipped open the front cover, eyes scanning it. Quentin saw his own rushed and cramped handwriting. 

_E,_

_I shall have no other God before thee._

_~ Q_

Eliot paused over the short inscription, and when he looked up Quentin again saw a flash of last night’s fragility that had melted away under the light of dawn like early snow. Then he found his smile, and kissed Quentin’s cheek.

“How delightfully blasphemous, darling,” Eliot said. “But what does it mean?”

Quentin smiled, knowing that by his curious nature the mystery would drive Eliot crazy. 

“You must read to find out.”

Eliot groaned and begged to be told, but Quentin won out in the end. With their presents opened and suitably admired, they spent a leisurely day with one another, talking and opening many bottles of wine even before the sun began to set. They ate spiced ginger cookies and sang carols at the piano, and Quentin lost count of the number of times Eliot kissed him. As evening approached, they ate a cold supper and then returned to the sitting room, sitting close on the sofa and watching the fire, Margo dozing softly in the armchair. 

“This was a wonderful Christmas,” Quentin said, leaning against Eliot’s shoulder. “My mother used to have parties on Christmas day. The house was so loud and noisy– it’s nice for it to just be us three.”

Eliot cuddled close. “It’s the only way we would have it. On this most sacred day, it must please the Lord to have us be freely ourselves, wouldn’t you say?”

Quentin hummed his assent, feeling a curtain of sleep starting to fall over him. Eliot drew the curtains, and they laid face to face on the sofa, Eliot’s hair tickling his nose as as they both gave in to a luxurious afternoon nap. Stripped down to just their waistcoats and shirtsleeves, Quentin felt the curve of his waist under his hands, the shape of his arms. They were warm, and happy, and in love– he stroked his hand down Eliot’s chest, tucking his head underneath his chin. In that moment, he made a memory. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus points for whoever can guess what the melody is that Eliot composed in this chapter. 
> 
> The bible quotes used in this chapter are from the "Song of Solomon," or the "Song of Songs."
> 
> As always, thank you so much for your comments, they truly keep us going.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the ~act 2 finale~ Buckle in, everybody. 
> 
> As always many Many thanks to our readers, kudos leavers, and especially commenters. We treasure each and every one, and they inspire us to keep up our pace, and post extra content! We're already looking forward to act 3. 
> 
> See the end notes for a specific sexual content warning (NOT sexual assault/non-con) for a scene in this chapter.

The Christmas season left in a burst of cold and snow, followed quickly by New Years and an endless cycle of parties and social obligations. The infamous Vienna social season was in full swing, and Quentin was merely along for the ride. Parties, balls, luncheons– they dominated both Margo and Eliot’s schedule until he only saw them at breakfast some days, if at all. Sometimes Quentin was invited, but other times he had his own engagements with the publisher and the scores of new students he gained as his music gained traction. 

It was a rare dinner in the month of January when they could sit and eat a three-course meal cooked by their beloved Frau Schiller and share lovely domestic conversation so common during the summer and autumn. One evening in particular, Quentin breezed into the dining room without changing, his bag still slung over his shoulder and snowflakes in his hair.

“Sorry– sorry–” He said, dropping his bag by the door where Todd or Franz wouldn’t trip over it, kissing Eliot on the cheek before sitting to his right. The soup course grew cold at his place. 

“Be at ease, my dear,” Eliot said, already dressed in his performance garb for a concert at a small theater later. “You look as if the snowstorm caught you on the walk home.”

“It did,” Quentin confirmed. “I had hoped to be home sooner, but well– my last lesson of the day ran over time.”

Margo dabbed at her mouth as Todd took her bowl away from her place. “Such a dedicated teacher, our Q, to donate extra time so generously.”

“Indeed,” Eliot said, grinning as he raised his glass toward him in a mock toast.

Quentin shook his head, nearly about to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. “I’m afraid it was not so generous a reason– um– I’m afraid that– well, I don’t quite know how to say it–”

Eliot took a piece of chicken from the tray Franz held steady. “We are quaking with anticipation.”

Quentin took a sip of wine, smiling weakly. “Well, Fraulein Violet quite nearly proposed to me today.” 

Margo snorted into her wine, which had been Quentin’s intention in sharing the otherwise humiliating episode. Eliot remained silent, chewing slowly on his bite of potatoes. 

“Dear god, the poor girl,” Margo said, wiping an imaginary tear from her eye as she laughed. “I hope you were a gentleman when you broke her heart.” 

“Goodness, I should hope as well. I can hardly remember now. One minute we were working through a difficult bit of fingering in her Chopin prelude and the next she had my hand clasped in hers. I thought I might faint dead away, truly.”

“Ah, but here we are in the social season, and every young woman already fatigued by the meat market,” Margo said with an air of wisdom. “No doubt Violet is willing to throw away her aspirations of a wealthy match in favor of mutual affection with a more soft-spoken and artistically minded spouse.” 

Quentin’s cheeks grew hot, but he grinned at Margo. 

“She did say something to that effect, yes.” 

“A delicate matter to be certain,” Eliot said, speaking for the first time on the topic. “How exactly did you reply?” 

“I believe I said I was possessed of too nervous a constitution for marriage. I’d never been so glad to speak of my melancholia, I can tell you.” 

Quentin paused when Eliot frowned. 

“Darling,” he said, “I hope you know I would never— that is to say I didn’t for a moment actually entertain the _possibility—”_

“Fraulein Violet seems a fine girl, to hear you speak of her.” Eliot’s tone was light, but his gaze was on the table as he buttered a roll. “I’m sure she would make a good wife.”

“I have no doubt that is the case, she is a dedicated student and very kind,” Quentin replied, confused by Eliot’s comments, and more so by the glare Margo appeared to be aiming at the side of her husband’s head. “But it will not be me to whom she is married. Obviously.” 

Eliot hummed noncommittally. He finally met Quentin’s eye when he offered him a lascivious grin. “You cannot blame her for trying, Q,” he said. “You are a _very_ handsome and eligible bachelor.” 

“You’re too kind, but I’m afraid my heart is spoken for.” Quentin sighed, and the smile faded from his lips. “Which is how I also would have preferred to respond to the fraulein, needless to say.” 

Eliot squeezed his knee. “Needless to say, I don’t hold that against you, dear.” 

“I am most relieved.” Quentin glanced at Margo, who was still studying Eliot with a suspicious air. He raised his eyebrows at her, and she shrugged, perfectly innocent. 

“Regardless,” he continued, looking for a new subject. “I’ll admit I’m most concerned about the loss of income, should all my students begin proposing. Violet was quite upset, and her mother thought it best if we canceled her next lesson.”

“Violet will cry her eyes out this evening, no doubt, and then attend a fabulous party tomorrow and remember all her prospects,” Margo assured him. “You’ll see her married to a handsome merchant before April and be ready to resume her lessons, I’m certain of it.”

Quentin raised his glass. “Cheers to that.”

They ate in companionable silence for a few more moments after the subject of Quentin’s failed engagement closed. Quentin chanced a few looks at Eliot, whose smile had faded as quickly as it had appeared. 

Eliot cleared his throat. “Something to interest all of us– I just received word today thar Herr Donizetti’s newest opera will premiere at the Royal Theater one week from this Saturday.”

Margo nearly squealed with glee. “This is _just_ what we all need, a true spectacle to break up the endless array of dull luncheons I am forced to attend.”

“I took the liberty of setting your appointment with the dress maker on my walk home today,” Eliot said, smiling at his wife. “She will be able to take you in on Monday, and promises she can have something spectacular ready by Saturday morning.”

“You know me too well.” Margo took Eliot’s hand. “Quentin, am I not the luckiest woman in all of Vienna?”

Quentin smiled over his glass. He would never tire of what an attractive couple Eliot and Margo made. “Indeed, my lady.”

In the week that followed, all work and social engagements were overshadowed by the opera that would premiere that Saturday. Quentin’s students talked of little else, of what they would wear and who they would see– obviously it was more of social engagement than an artistic event, and as the evening drew closer he was certain that he was the only soul in Vienna interested in Donizetti’s newest ‘masterpiece.’

“Don’t get your hopes up, my love,” Eliot said one day as he squeaked out a half hour of practice in Quentin’s company. “The crowd usually refuses to settle, and the soprano will have to sing so loud you will worry for the integrity of the chandelier. It is a beautiful evening, though. You’ll see.”

When the evening came, Eliot and Margo commiserated over their outfit choices as Quentin imagined the Emperor’s advisors did over matters of state. When all was said and done, Eliot wore a new suit jacket that nipped tighter at the waist than his performance attire, offset by a silk maroon waistcoat and black cravat spilling generously from his throat. Margo complemented his look with a shining dress of dove gray satin offset by white silk gloves, Quentin’s Christmas gift of lace now affixed to the low, off the shoulder neckline of the gown in a fashionable ruffle. A snow-white fur wrap completed her look, contrasting beautifully with Eliot’s dark overcoat. They were a perfect pair as they exited the townhouse arm-in-arm, and Quentin was content to trail behind them in his best velvet jacket and a new pinstripe waistcoat, purchased from the earnings off his latest publication.

The Royal Theater was indeed a spectacle, at least twice as busy as it had been for Quentin’s concerto performance in November, and looking much more opulent lit up with thousands of candles that threw shadows against the white snow on the ground. This was no concert, this was an event reserved for and paid for by the aristocracy, and they demanded luxury. 

They filed inside with the rest of the crowd, leaving Margo in the Hanson box with a glass of champagne and the company of her cousin Sophia. 

“Go show Quentin around!” She called after them. 

It was a rare thing, for he and Eliot to be together at a performance. Usually, Eliot was required to mingle on his own, being the main event of the evening, but tonight neither of them was obliged to work. There was a buzz of excitement in the air, Quentin felt the infectiousness of it as Eliot led him through the crowd. 

“My lady Hoffman,” Eliot said, stopping and bowing low to an older woman dressed very luxuriously in deep gold silk, her hair a steely silver color. She nodded and held fast to her fan. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”

“The pleasure is mine, Herr Waugh.” Her accent had a strange lilt to it, and Quentin surmised that she must hail from the north. Her gaze was sharp, her eyes a deep blue. After acknowledging Eliot, her eyes roamed slowly over Quentin. “And who is this you have brought with you tonight?”

Eliot stepping aside, urging Quentin forward. “This is my most promising protege, Herr Quentin Coldwater, from Germany. You might have heard of the successful debut of his concerto only two months ago?”

Lady Hoffman continued to eye him, holding out a hand. Quentin took it, bowing over it in the way he had become accustomed to doing. 

“It is a privilege, my lady.”

“My, my, and such lovely manners. I’m sure you are excited about the possibilities that are born of a Vienna social season?”

Quentin’s brow knit together. “Actually, my lady–”

“He is open to any and everything, Lady Hoffman,” Eliot said, clapping him on the shoulder hard enough he nearly stumbled. “Such a fine young man of promise, he is.”

“How lovely to know,” She said, her gaze returning to Eliot. 

As Quentin looked between them, confused, the deep red curtain masking the stage began to rise, and it was time for the show to begin. They made polite excuses to Lady Hoffman, and climbed again to the Hanson box where Margo waited for them. 

Even as the opera began in earnest, not many people sat or paid any attention to the actors on the stage. The singing was beautiful, Quentin had to admit, but his italian was poor at best and the story held little of his interest. Something nagged at him, and he found himself leaning over to speak with Margo.

“Eliot introduced me to a Lady Hoffman,” he whispered. “I’m not sure why, I have never heard her name when Eliot mentions patrons of the arts.”

Margo pursed her lips, glaring over his shoulder where Eliot made conversation with Rolf Hanson. “No,” she said, words clipped. “She is not a patron. At least not a patron of music.”

He straightened his collar. “Huh, then I wonder why he would think to–”

“She’s a notorious matchmaker, Q.”

Quentin froze, his hands still on his cravat. Something cold dropped into his stomach, his nerves immediately in a frenzy. He brushed them aside with a laugh. 

“Surely, that was not Eliot’s intent– he was only being polite.”

Margo bit her upper lip. “If that is what you think.”

Quentin pushed thoughts of Lady Hoffman aside as the first act plodded on, the story halted to appease the long and drawn-out arias of the lead sopranos and tenors. He felt that it was a rather peculiar way to tell a story, with as many starts and stops as there were events to move the plot along. He was in part relieved when the curtain fell and it was time for the intermission. 

Eliot immediately turned to him. “Let’s go walking again, shall we?”

Quentin usually loved Eliot like this. In his element, extremely social and gracious to all, but something was different. His eyes had a manic glint to them. 

“Alright,” Quentin chanced, rising at Eliot’s cue. “If you think–”

Eliot was already ahead of him, down the hall and entering another box, Quentin on his heels. He introduced him to the people inside, an older couple in attendance with their daughter, a young lady who rose to formally introduce herself to Quentin. Confused, Quentin bowed and returned the introduction.

As quickly as they entered that box, they were out in the hallway, approached by many a lady _very_ eager to introduce their daughters. Quentin sensed Eliot’s invisible hand at his back, steering him this way and that way, introducing him and praising him to the high heavens. 

“Fraulein Anna, I must introduce you to a most esteemed artist—“

“Herr Coldwater, may I present Fraulein Sarah? A most accomplished singer. I’ve been telling him that he should write more songs, and I’m sure they would fit your lovely voice—“

“— Lady Marie, I am so pleased to introduce you to the composer of _Des Abends,_ she had been most enchanted the evening I played it at the palace, Herr Coldwater—“

Eliot herded him around like prized stock, introducing him to enough young and eligible ladies that Quentin felt dizzy from an excess of bowing. 

“Eliot, what are you–”

“Over here, Q, there is a lovely family I wish for you to meet–”

Quentin’s mood fell as he realized what Eliot was doing. Eliot had introduced him to many people since his move to Vienna– publishers, court musicians, other composers, influential aristocrats– but never had his introductions had such a slant to them. Never had Quentin felt that Eliot was intending to play… matchmaker. 

Only after he had made his twentieth introduction of the evening, his head aching and his heart clenched in anger, did Quentin take Eliot by the sleeve and drag him into a dark corner leading to the dressing rooms. 

“Q, what’s the matter–”

Quentin pushed his shoulder, forcing Eliot to turn and face him. 

“Are you my lover or my chaperone?”

Eliot’s eyes sharpened, and he looked over his shoulder. 

“Sometimes your impulsivity is charming, Q, but here—“

“What of _your_ impulsivity?” Quentin said low and quiet. “I thought this was just an enjoyable evening out– am I to think that I should make a suitable match with a young lady of means tonight?”

Eliot’s brow furrowed in false confusion. It only made anger shake harder in Quentin’s bones. 

“I only wish for everyone to know of your success,” Eliot denied. “For you to feel comfortable among society.”

“I don’t believe you,” Quentin snapped. “I have been among society for months, and never have you behaved like this. Perhaps you think I seek a similar situation to your marriage?”

“I said nothing of the sort.”

“You didn’t have to, Eliot. You should know I could never enter into an affair with a woman while in your bed.”

Eliot blinked, then clasped his hands behind his back and gazed at the ceiling. 

“Margo and I are unique, Quentin. And I know you would not seek to mimic our dynamic, as you are capable of a full marriage with a woman, unlike myself.”

“You assume I would choose marriage over what we—“

“Stop,” Eliot hissed, meeting his eye once more. His mouth was hard, his shoulders locked. “I will not risk my career and my freedom by continuing this discussion here. If you seek a scandal, do so with another man.”

Eliot turned, putting his back to him and walking away back towards the theater. 

Acid rose in Quentin’s throat. Anger, hot and spitting. 

“Do you fear scandal, Eliot, or me?”

Eliot stopped, his hands clenched at his sides before ignoring him and continuing on. 

Quentin swallowed, running a hand through his loose hair and pulling, hard enough for it to sting. He felt wild, for the first time in his life truly _angry_ with the man he loved. He took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts as the orchestra began to tune once more. 

When he returned to Margo’s box, the opera had begun again, this time with a dramatic scene where the heroine’s lover was unjustly imprisoned by her wicked uncle. Eliot sat silent, watching the drama with his legs crossed, a glass of claret in his hand. He did not acknowledge him when Quentin took his seat beside him. 

The drama continued, with the heroine reaching through the bars to plead with her lover to do… something dishonorable, Quentin couldn’t quite understand what. Whatever it was, it would grant him freedom, and they would be together, but at a horrible price. 

Twenty minutes into the second act, and Eliot leaned over. 

“What kind of question is that?” Eliot hissed, his voice low enough that only Quentin could hear him. “Do I fear scandal? Of _course_ I fear it– if anyone were to know about our affair it would be the end of our lives.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Quentin returned in a whisper. “My career is new, I am wholly dependant on my reputation–”

“Yes, on this we can agree, and you must know yourself that your reputation would be secured if you could make a suitable match now that you have found success and can support a home.”

“Is this about money?” Quentin returned. “Do you not wish for me to live in your home anymore?”

Eliot rolled his eyes. “Why do you insinuate that any of this has to do with me? This is your life– your future, you cannot stay in stasis forever. You must move forward.”

“So now I can only move forward by rushing into a marriage with any factory owner’s daughter who makes an offer?”

Eliot’s jaw was hard. “I’m only saying that you shouldn’t be closed to it. There are many honorable women in this city, modest and thoughtful– equal to you. The way you treated Fraulein Violet–”

Quentin laughed bitterly. “Fraulein Violet? Are you still thinking of that? I told you that story to make you _laugh,_ not contemplate my finances.”

“It is not only your finances I worry for, Quentin.”

“Then what is it that ails you, so that I might set your mind at ease–”

Onstage, the soprano let out such a bellowing note that Quentin momentarily couldn’t hear Eliot’s words. 

“What did you say?”

Eliot shook his head. “I said– _christ,_ Quentin– I said that you should think of your happiness in the long-term.”

Quentin felt something hot sting behind his eyes. “I thought I already was. Is that not why I am here, with you?”

A muscle jumped in Eliot’s jaw, and he rose, straightening the lapels of his jacket. He dipped down, making some excuse in Margo’s ear before storming out of the box. She looked to Quentin in concern before turning to her cousin with a smile, no doubt blaming Eliot’s abrupt exit on the swiftly changing moods of an artist.

Quentin found himself completely uninterested in the events of the opera after that, and if asked, he would have been unable to name a single character or ending scene. Once the curtain fell with a final dramatic note he leapt to his feet, intending to storm away himself, when Margo took hold of his forearm. 

“Take my arm, and smile,” she hissed, her own brand of anger coloring her tone. “We don’t want to cause a scene. Eliot took ill, and had to leave early, that is all.”

Quenitn nodded, feeling somewhat sorry for Margo as he played at escorting her from the theater. She smiled graciously at those who greeted her, making excuses for Eliot at every turn. Everyone wanted to know where her eccentric husband had gone, as if looking for an excuse to insult him. Her hand was tense on his arm. 

He didn’t want to cause her further trouble, but as they approached the carriage, he needed to know, he needed to hear the reason for Eliot’s behavior from her mind. 

“Do you mind if I smoke?” Quentin asked as Franz closed the door behind them. 

“So long as I can have a puff on it,” Margo agreed, opening her purse to offer Quentin a match. The carriage took off with a jolt. “My nerves are shot after that display.” 

She held the lit match for him, and soon the carriage was lit by the faint glow of the cherry ember.

“Have I overstayed my welcome?” Quentin asked smoke curled around their heads like a tender caress. “Is this how Eliot goes about evicting a lover when his affections have cooled? My lady, I hope we are friends enough that you would be blunt with me.” 

“My, that was a many pronged query, wasn’t it?” Margo snapped shut the closure on her reticule, sighing deeply. 

“Please, Margo, I don’t understand why he would act in this way. After Christmas I thought...well I thought we were settled, as settled as we can ever be.”

Margo stroked a hand over the bit of her wrap that reached her lap, as though the fur belonged to a living creature whose comfort might soothe her agitation.

“Where you see stability, Eliot sees only vulnerability, Q,” she said after a moment’s thought. “He lives in fear with each gossamer layer peeled back that you will finally see something ugly in him, and cast him aside. So if we are to work backwards through your questions, then I would say I’m not surprised at all to see him pull away after you touched the tender heart of him at Christmas.”

Quentin frowned. Loving a man was messy work. 

“As to you and I,” Margo continued, plucking the cigarette from Quentin’s fingers, “We are friends enough that I will tell you Eliot has never had a lover in our home.” 

“Never?” Quentin was shocked. Eliot had been so certain, so at ease all those months ago in Leipzig. Quentin hadn’t dared to imagine that he was not simply the latest in a small queue of “compositional proteges” who had taken up residence in the north bedroom. 

Margo looked on him briefly as if he were a fool. 

“It has been years since Eliot has had a lover at all, Quentin. Dalliances and brief encounters, yes, but love? He keeps his heart too closely guarded for that.”

“I— oh. I mean, I hear you both speak of a Russian Duke. I thought—”

“Idri is a dear friend to us both. And a divine dancer,” Margo says, a fond look on her face. “But he is nearly fifty years old, Quentin. He is a widower, with grown children, and duties to his estate. He lives freely in the way only lords of ancient families can, but his time with Eliot has always been a pleasant holiday. It is why Eliot enjoyed being favored by him, if I am telling my husband’s business tonight. A set end date does much to temper his expectations.” 

Quentin received the cigarette back, fingers trembling in his abject misery. He took care not to drop any ash on Margo’s skirts. 

“Then Eliot _has_ tired of me,” he declared. “He seeks our end date, so that he will be unencumbered by our attachment.” 

“That is a spectacular misinterpretation of my words, Herr Coldwater.”

“How else am I to think?” he demanded. “Eliot tried to force my company on half the women in town tonight, and stormed out when I wouldn’t cooperate. It is as though he thinks I care nothing for him.”

“Eliot is a fearful man, and he has brought you into his home, where he is most exposed.” Margo shrugged. “His actions are bizarre but they do not lead me to think his ardor has cooled. The opposite seems more likely.”

Quentin scowls. “If he thinks to test me, I am going to be angry with him.”

Margo gazes at him, considering. “Quentin dear, I think that your unceasing steadfastness is proving more of a test to _him_.”

Quentin sighed, and cracking a window he dropped the butt of their shared cigarette onto the cobblestones that passed below. 

“Regarding overstaying your welcome…” 

Quentin turned back to find Margo staring at him again. Across her features were writ the same fatigue and exasperation that he himself no doubt displayed, and yet there was something else. Warmth. Camaraderie. Fondness. 

“I find that after six months— even with Eliot’s flights of drama— I’m starting to really enjoy your company, Q.” 

Quentin found it in himself to smile at his lover’s wife. 

“My lady, the feeling is mutual.”

They already neared the house, and so took the last few block’s journey in silence. After their conversation, a cigarette, and the brisk chill of the air that greeted them as they stepped from the carriage to the front walk, Quentin felt his reactionary fears were somewhat settled. He looked on the townhouse with a more hopeful mindset as he and Margo scurried up the walk and into the warm foyer. Unlike the opera house, within these walls there was nothing that could not be discussed, no knot of misunderstanding that couldn’t be untangled. 

Quentin said his goodnight to Margo at the top of the stairs, and stepped down the hall to his own room. He expected it to be dark, and empty, yet he entered to find the light of a single flickering candle on the nightstand, and sat up on the bed in only his dressing gown was Eliot. He was the very portrait of dejection, his chin resting on his crossed arms over his bent knees. Even in his misery he was beautiful, however, the golden light of the candle haloing the edge of his profile, shining in his ink black hair, and catching the points of shimmering embroidery across his robe. The robe which was a gift from the Russian duke, Quentin recalled, with less anxiety than he might have an hour ago. 

Quentin stepped into the room, removing his jacket and laying it over his desk chair. He took off his boots as well, and pulled loose the knot of his cravat. 

“If you are angry with me, I can leave.”

Eliot’s voice was hard. Quentin sat on the edge of the bed. He curled a thigh up under himself, and cupped a hand around Eliot’s bare ankle. The touch of their skin, even as chaste as this, was always a relief.

“I am angry,” Quentin agreed. “But I would still rather you stay.” 

He would always rather have Eliot close than be apart. Eliot’s shoulders dropped slightly, though his frown persisted. 

“Margo must be cross with me as well.” 

“It was unfair of you to leave us.” Quentin’s passions had cooled, but he would not lie and pretend Eliot had done nothing wrong. “To leave her. Many asked after you, and it was Margo, not I, who had to do the work of covering up our argument.” 

“I know.” Eliot sighed over his crossed arms, then leaned back against the headboard. “Somehow it’s always Margo who must clean up my messes.”

“It was my mess, too.” Quentin played with a loose thread on the coverlet near Eliot’s foot. “I still don’t understand, Eliot, why you have suddenly turned towards the idea of my marriage, but I made you fearful in my anger, and I’m sorry.” 

Eliot’s brow furrowed. “Fearful? Q—”

“I spoke carelessly, in far too public a setting.” Eliot’s mouth set at Quentin’s clarification, and Quentin knew he was right in his assumptions. “I know it is no mere issue of propriety that keeps our personal quarrels behind closed doors.” 

Eliot covered Quentin’s hand with his own, stopping his fiddling. Quentin laced their fingers together, relieved that the intimacy was allowed. 

“The safety of our life here— and Margo’s life, her happiness— there is nothing more precious to me,” Quentin promised. “Forgive me, please, Eliot, for letting you think for a moment I would put that in danger over a disagreement between us.” 

Eliot squeezed his hand. “You are forgiven, of course,” he said, voice still soft. He offered Quentin a rueful smile.

“I would love nothing more than to be able to bicker freely with you at the theater, darling.” 

Quentin ducked his head. “It is a strange feeling,” he agreed, “To be envious of the squabbles of improprietous marriages.”

At the mention of marriage, both of their tentative smiles vanished.

“Are you trying to be rid of me?” Quentin asked, hating the tremor returning to his voice. “There were times tonight where I feared I might be auctioned off to the highest bidder, and tossed into a stranger’s marriage bed then and there.”

“That is a slightly dramatic reading of events, Q.”

“I didn’t author the drama of the evening.” 

They edged into dangerous territory now, but Quentin did not let go of Eliot’s hand, nor did Eliot pull away. 

“Why did you not come to me, and ask if I were interested in seeking out a wife?” 

Eliot pursed his lips. 

“Allow me to answer my own question,” Quentin continued. “It was because you knew I would say no.”

Eliot looked away, guilt etched in his features.

“My concerns over your future remain, but I can see now that my method was hurtful to you,” he said at last. “I thought, perhaps, if I were the initiator, that you would not feel guilty over the idea. If you saw that I wasn’t jealous— that I wouldn’t stand in your way—”

“I think I would prefer you to be slightly more jealous than you’ve demonstrated tonight.”

Eliot met his eye then. “I am so jealous it could eat me alive,” he confessed. “But that is why I mustn't be selfish with you. Moving in society, it is so much easier as a married man. There would be no function barred to you, no secret corners of patronage too respectable for a bachelor—”

Quentin sighed. “I am not blind to the benefits of what you suggest,” he interrupted, “But it isn’t for you to decide. To discuss, perhaps, but I know my own mind, and my own heart, and both are clear on this matter.”

“You would make a fine husband,” Eliot said, apparently unable to let the subject go without one last stab at his target. Quentin pulled his hand to his lips, kissing the knuckles. 

“Have I failed to serve as such to you?” 

Eliot’s hand trembled in his grip. 

“Please don’t ask me to make a home with another before your very presence,” Quentin spoke firmly, but his heart was a single ache, desperate and pleading. “There must be no more matchmaking, Eliot, for I could never marry while I am yet permitted in your embrace.”

Eliot looked away, his mouth set in a frown, but at long last he nodded. Quentin sighed his relief, and cupped Eliot’s face in his hand. Eliot leaned into the touch as his frown wobbled, the last of his stubbornness dissolving into the tenderness that Quentin was so intimately familiar with. His eyes were wet when he met Quentin’s gaze again.

“Then we are in agreement, and I forgive you your plotting,” Quentin said, brushing the pad of his thumb over Eliot’s cheekbone, his voice hushed in the silence between them, “And if we are both forgiven, I would like very much for you to kiss me.” 

If Eliot still held any vexation in his heart over Quentin’s obstinance, he could not taste it as they met in a tender embrace. The meeting of their lips always was a sweet relief, a drop of honey on the tongue after a long day and a bitter evening. Eliot pulled Quentin nearly into his lap, his hands still trembling at he helped him free of his waistcoat and cradled his ribs in his broad palm. Quentin for his part clasped his hand to the back of Eliot’s neck guiding the kiss deeper and hotter as their lips parted and low sounds of pleasure escaped them.

“Q—” Eliot’s gaze was hungry, and open, a flash of what they had shared at Christmas, and Quentin could have wept with relief. “My love, please— I want—” 

Quentin rocked his hips forward into Eliot’s belly, already hard beneath the trousers he still wore. 

“Anything,” he promised. “I’m yours Eliot, ask anything of me.” 

He expected to be laid on his back, for Eliot to cover him, part his thighs, and make love to him, as they had so many nights before this one. Yet it was Eliot’s head that hit Quentin’s pillow, and Quentin tugged to lay atop him. Eliot spread his legs around Quentin’s hips, his dressing gown falling open to reveal his moon pale flesh.

“Have me,” he begged, breath quick against Quentin’s lips. “Have me as you would your wife.”

Quentin’s own breath caught as desire swamped him. Eliot had never asked before— never expressed an interest since the one time Quentin had spent into the squeeze of his thighs. And now, after all that they had said tonight, to ask— 

“Oh, my darling.” He kissed Eliot’s jaw, then his cheek, then his reddened mouth, Eliot’s raven curls silk against his fingers. He loved him so much, Quentin was certain he could write a sonata dedicated only to dark flutter of his eyelashes, or the sweet dimple in his chin. 

“The difference is only the mechanical,” he murmured, settling his weight over his lover, stroking the curls back from Eliot’s brow. “For when we make love you are nothing less than a spouse in my heart.”

Eliot whimpered against his lips as though he were in pain, his broad, fine hands fisted tight in Quentin’s shirt. Their lips parted, and Quentin allowed himself to be kissed filthy and deep as he settled into the cradle of Eliot’s hips.

This would be a deeply sacred thing, Quentin was determined. It had been— lord— _years_ since Quentin had given of himself, rather than received his partner, and he wanted—nay, it was his _duty_ — to see that Eliot knew only pleasure in this. That Quentin could provide for his lover, protect him, as Eliot had done for him so many times. 

He did not allow himself to dwell too deeply yet on Eliot’s spread thighs. Instead he kissed him, and dragged his fingers over the rasp of hair on his chest. Quentin reached further— even on his back and curled around him, Eliot was still so _tall_ — and wrapped his hand around Eliot’s hardening cock. He slid his fist up and down, squeezing and twisting his wrist, studying every shift of his lover’s face to see what brought him the most pleasure. 

“Q—” Eliot squeezed his eyes shut, as though the scrutiny was too much to bear. 

“It’s alright, look at me,” Quentin coaxed him, but Eliot shook his head, and instead pulled him down into another kiss, one that tasted of more urgency than tenderness. Quentin made a questioning sound against his lips, but Eliot slid his palm down to squeeze over the arousal in his trousers and his mind went blank. Their next kiss was biting. Quentin’s lip stung with the nip of Eliot’s teeth, and he tried to gentle him, with little success. His hands were grasping, tugging at Quentin’s shirt so that he feared it might pull at the seams. His heels dug into Quentin’s back, urging him closer. Quentin could barely lean away to fetch the oil from his nightstand. 

“Are you sure?” Quentin asked, the bottle in his hand. A sense of unease fluttered at the edges of his arousal as he took in the frantic darting of Eliot’s gaze and the fevered flush to his cheeks. 

“Yes, _yes,_ please Quentin, I need this _—”_

The oil was taken from Quentin’s grasp, and Eliot smeared it on his fingers like mechanic might smear grease on an uncooperative gearshaft. 

“Alright, just, please, El, let me—” Quentin pressed him back into the bed, his left hand flat on his chest while his other searched between Eliot’s thighs for the first time. Eliot rolled his head back onto the pillow when Quentin touched him, his pulse pounding in his throat. They had never spoken of this, but Quentin knew it must have been at least a year since Eliot had been penetrated by more than his own fingers, and he was determined to be gentle. 

Eliot did not seem to share his opinion. His brow furrowed as Quentin stroked his entrance, trying to prepare him for the sensation, to spread the oil before he— 

“Put them _in_ , Quentin, I can take it.” Quentin was taken aback by the irritation in Eliot’s command. 

Eliot spoke of being man and wife, but the way his hand circled Quentin’s wrist when he finally pressed an oiled finger inside spoke more of desperation, of carnality and— of pain. 

“Slow,” he gasped as Eliot tried to push himself deeper onto the intrusion, the grimace on his face betraying the impatience with which he was behaving. “Please, Eliot, look at me.”

“Will you just—” 

“No, I _won’t_.” 

Quentin pulled his fingers free, tugging Eliot’s hand from his wrist. “Eliot you’re hurting yourself, or you plan to. What is this?” 

With a frustrated huff Eliot pushed Quentin away. He nearly fell onto his backside on the bed as Eliot sat up. 

“If you don’t want to have me properly, I can sleep in my own bed tonight.” 

“Eliot, I—”

Eliot pulled his silk robe closed over his naked form and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

“I am not a nervous bride,” he snapped. “I know my own body, Quentin, or have you forgotten how many men I’ve had before you?”

Quentin swallowed back an angry response. He tried to remember Margo’s words from earlier, and he was able to read the fear in Eliot’s voice, not only the irritation. 

“Perhaps it was I who required the caution, then,” he replied, “As my experience in this realm has been far less. I did not expect my dearest love to be so rushed, or careless with our union.” 

Eliot turned his face away, not before Quentin watched his expression crumple. 

“Why do you ask to be treated as a spouse, then demand such roughness in the next breath?” he asked. “Would you be so rough with Margo?”

Eliot’s shoulders tightened, then sagged. 

“I would never,” he admitted, “I _have_ never.” 

Quentin collected himself, and reached out to squeeze Eliot’s hand where it was still braced against the mattress. 

“We need never lie together in this way, if it causes you to be upset.” Quentin could only guess at what had led Eliot to behave so bizarrely. Another of his many secrets, buried away so that Quentin would only see his _best_. “But come back to bed. Let me comfort you, please.”

He was dismayed to see Eliot shake his head. 

“No, no, darling, I think I’ve had too much to drink.” Eliot pulled Quentin’s hand to his lips, though he wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I’m out of sorts, is all. I’m sorry for the fuss.” 

“It’s forgiven, if you’ll lay down with me,” Quentin pleaded, “We can just sleep. It’s alright.” 

Eliot released his hand and stood. 

“I think I need a few hours alone, Quentin,” he said, tying his robe. “Goodnight.”

Quentin sat frozen as Eliot exited without a backward glance, shutting the door behind him. Quentin swallowed and snuffed the candle on his night table, letting the room fall into complete darkness. It was a new moon outside, and not a strip of light filtered through the window to cast a shadow. 

Further down the hallway, he heard a door click shut. Eliot had gone to his dressing room to sleep, not even Margo’s.

He contemplated finding a cigarette, but the thought of the taste turned his stomach. As the dark closed in he was beset with a profound exhaustion. The chance of pleasure and intimacy to soothe the rough edges of the night was now dashed, and Quentin found his anxieties threatening to return. Here in the small hours of the morning there would be no Margo emerging to speak common sense. 

Standing, he padded softly over to the widow, watching as the snow fell. It clung to the eaves and stuck to the windowpane before melting into frost. It was silent, merely a moving picture, but as he watched the window carry the snow to the road below, he thought of how Eliot had spoke of himself as a boy. How he had seen music in the silence of snow. 

Quentin closed his eyes, trying to imagine where he would be had Eliot Waugh not strode into his favorite cafe in Leipzig, that day all those months ago. Struggling, to be sure– struggling with money and his mother and his melancholy. He would have kept the same routine each day. Rise too late to be called proper, take breakfast in his house, compose, grow frustrated, and spend the rest of the day drinking in the cafe. 

Instead, he had fallen in love.

He opened his eyes. The dullness of his life before would be nothing compared to the agony of returning to it. That exile seemed to hang over his head tonight as it never had in all these joyful months. 

Alone. Eliot wished to be alone tonight. A reasonable request, but as Quentin walked slowly back to his bed and slid between the sheets, he worried for the morning, and what awaited them with the sunrise. 

~

Despite the late hour he fell asleep, Quentin woke early the next morning. He washed his face and combed his hair, dressing in one of his older suits. He tied his hair back into a knot and allowed Franz to take his formal suit for washing and pressing. 

The house was quiet as he descended the stairs, despite the fact that this was when Eliot usually had his most productive work time. He peeked into the study, finding it empty, the cover over the piano keys. 

Margo sat alone at the breakfast table, already dressed for the myriad of calls she no doubt needed to make that day. 

“Good morning,” he said quietly as he took his seat. 

“Good morning,” Margo returned, reaching for the salt and pepper for her eggs. 

Todd filled his coffee cup as Quentin stared at the breakfast offerings before him. Margo and Eliot weren’t wasteful, but still liked to have options in the morning. Quentin’s eyes swam over the trays of toast and meat, his usual soft-boiled egg sitting untouched before him. 

“Can I get you something else, sir?” Todd asked, pulling him from his stupor. 

“No– thank you, Todd,” Quentin stuttered. “Just coffee, I think.”

Margo cleared her throat, pouring more tea into her cup. “I saw a most curious bird outside the window earlier.”

Quentin hummed that he was listening.

“Some sort of swallow, to be sure,” she continued. “But with a splendidly long tail. I shall have to consult one of Eliot’s books on the natural sciences to be sure.”

Quentin’s chest tightened at the mention of Eliot’s name. He took his cup in hand, trying to remain casual. 

“Where is Eliot? I had expected him to be working in his study this morning.”

Margo’s smile was tight and thin. “He left for court early. He wanted to get a head-start on plans for the Emperor’s ball next weekend.”

“I see.”

Despite his lack of appetite, Quentin cracked into his egg, now cold and slightly gelatinous. He took a few bites, then pushed it away, standing. 

“I think I need a walk.”

“Don’t we all,” Margo said, unmoved, but watching him. “The snow stopped, so I think you will find it pleasant.”

“Yes, I–” Quentin stopped, his hands fidgeting. “I think I will.”

He turned away to leave. 

“Q?”

He stopped at the door, one hand on the frame. 

“Yes, my lady?”

“He’s just afraid,” she said, echoing the similar words she had spoken the evening before. She placed her napkin on the table. “We all lose our nerve sometimes.”

Quentin blinked, hiding how his eyes filled at her words. “I think you’re right. I appreciate–” He swallowed, the words stilted and shallow to his ears. “I appreciate your support, my Lady.”

Margo smiled. “Last night you called me ‘Margo.’ I think I would like if you continued to do so.”

He nodded, the knot around his heart loosening slightly. “I will, my– Margo.”

She laughed, and Quentin felt her gaze as he left, taking his hat from the stand and wrapping his scarf around his neck to ward off the chill. 

Quentin held on to her smile for the rest of the day. He did take a walk, the cold air clearing his head until his lungs drew deep breath once more. He endeavored to keep his mind busy, settling down in a cafe and finally finishing the letter to his mother and making a copy of his latest composition for Herr Bauer’s approval. Once the clock struck noon, it was time for his afternoon students, and then the slow walk home to where Eliot waited for him. 

He hoped. 

“Did you have a good day, Herr Coldwater?” Franz asked as he let Quentin in through the front door.

Quentin handed him his hat and scarf. “Yes, thank you Franz. Is Herr Waugh here?”

Franz nodded, and Quentin noted the tightness in his young valet’s jaw. News traveled quickly among the servants. 

“He is, sir. In his study.”

Quentin thanked him, letting his footsteps carry him slowly down the hall. The piano was still silent. He cracked the door open. Eliot sat at his desk, head bowed as he wrote. Quentin stepped inside, closing the door behind him. 

Quentin took a seat in the straight-backed chair in front of the desk. Eliot’s mouth was a thin line as he wrote quickly. 

“Who are you writing to?” Quentin asked, breaking the silence. 

Eliot didn’t look up. “Your friend Alice, actually. I received her letter two days ago and I’m only now just getting to it.”

“Really?” Quentin asked, brow furrowed. He hadn’t written to his friend in over a month, what business could she have with Eliot? “What did she say?”

Eliot signed the bottom of the letter with a swipe of his pen. “Apparently, there was a fire in one of the peasant villages around Leipzig. Several families lost their homes and livestock.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

Eliot shook his head, blotting the ink. “No, thankfully.”

Quentin sat back in the chair. 

“That is a hardship, but why did Alice write to you of it?”

Satisfied that the ink wouldn’t smear, Eliot folded the paper carefully, reaching for the melting wax in its tin above the candle. 

“She had an idea to organize a benefit concert, for those affected. She asked if I would be interested in headlining the concert, sometime in the spring.”

“Will you?”

Eliot shook his head. “No. I’m afraid I can’t leave court for the spring again, the Emperor wouldn’t approve– since I was gone so long last year.”

With a flutter of nerves Quentin remembered the reason why. 

“I sent her money, of course,” Eliot continued. “It’s a worthy cause.”

“Alice always had a cause,” Quentin said. “Something that held her convictions. I’m unsurprised that she wishes to help others now.”

Eliot poured wax onto the flap of the letter, pressing his seal into it and setting it aside to cool. He stood, adjusting his coat and walking toward the piano, lifting the cover from the keys and taking his seat at the bench. 

“Eliot,” Quentin said quietly.

“Hmm?” Eliot didn’t turn, rummaging through the sheet music sitting on the stand. 

“Won’t you look at me?”

Eliot sighed: a deep, impatient sound. He grasped the fallboard, his head hanging. Quentin heard the plea in his own voice, the weakness. Margo had said that Eliot was merely afraid, meaning that it was Quentin’s turn to be brave. And yet, as he sat with Eliot’s back to him, he knew fear as well. 

Eliot did turn, and only now that Quentin held his full gaze did he see the dark circles under his eyes. The few feet that separated then felt like a mile. 

“Did you not sleep either?” Quentin asked. 

Eliot shook his head. “Not very well. The bed in my dressing room is very hard.”

Quentin chanced a small smile. “I thought you liked it that way.”

Eliot laughed softly, just an exhale. “I suppose I’ve grown fond of softer treatment.”

Quentin relaxed somewhat, standing and walking over to him and sitting on the bench. Eliot made room for him, and they sat face to face.

“I feel as if there is too much unspoken between us, now,” Quentin said. “Like I don’t know your thoughts. Are you still angry?”

“I’m not angry. In truth, I’m– I’m ashamed by how I acted last night.”

Quentin waited as Eliot gathered his thoughts. 

“I should not have snapped at you,” he said. “Especially since you only sought to be gentle. I– it was my nerves that caused the outburst, and I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.” Quentin stroked his face, and Eliot’s eyes fell closed. “I’m not angry either. I was more confused and– I was worried that you wouldn’t let me care for you.”

“That’s not your job, Q.”

Quentin grimaced, letting his hands fall to Eliot’s shoulders then to his lap, where he took his hand between two of his own. “What if I wish for it? What if my greatest desire is to be allowed to care for you, when you need it?”

Eliot’s eyes fluttered opened.

“I worry, often, that I haven’t the constitution to be a good partner to someone,” Quentin said, squeezing Eliot’s hand. “That in my insecurity I’m too selfish, too caught in my own mind.”

“That’s not true,” Eliot said.

“You see? Even now, you seek to placate me, because I cannot hide what I’m feeling, as you do.”

“I don’t hide my feelings from you. I have told you many times of my love for you, does that not count?”

Quentin shook his head. “It counts– you know it does. But I don’t refer to your affection. Last night you attempted to initiate a courtship between myself and half the eligible middle-class of Vienna.”

“I _told_ you last night that I wouldn’t do that again–”

Quentin waved a hand, pursing his lips. “I know. I don’t wish for us to quarrel.”

Eliot sighed, turning so that they both faced the piano. He ran a hand over the keys, improvising a chromatic figure on the spot. Quentin watched him, leaning his head on Eliot’s shoulder. He rubbed slowed circles onto Eliot’s back as he began to compose in earnest, picking up a pen and adding to the manuscript set upon the stand. It was slow, unfocused work. Eliot played the same eight measures repeatedly, adding and subtracting from the harmony each time. 

“I heard you playing this the other day,” Quentin murmured. “Such a nice melody– but you moved it to the tenor voice. Why?”

Eliot finished playing the figure once more. “So then I could imagine it was you singing to me.”

Quentin laughed once, the image humorous despite Eliot’s intended tenderness. “I’m a terrible singer.”

Eliot sofly proclaimed his disbelief, but continued working. Eliot had a lovely voice. He often sang at parties, accompanied by himself or Quentin. One of his many talents. Quentin enjoyed collaborating with him in that way, enjoyed how in music they could be seen as a team. Open, unafraid of judgement. 

“Do you ever think of life, and how different it could be?” Quentin mused, his mind wandering in the slowness of the moment. 

Eliot paused, his pen hovering over the manuscript paper. 

“What do you mean?”

He made another mark on his manuscript while waiting for Quentin’s explanation. Quentin chanced pressing a kiss to the underside of Eliot’s ear. 

“I mean, what if this all was easier, as easy as it is for any man courting a woman to be his wife? What if the world accepted our love?” He played with the hair on the back of Eliot’s neck. “What if _everyone_ knew of our affair and looked upon it favorably, instead of with scorn?”

Eliot set his pen upon the music stand, placing his hands on the keys to try out the counter-melody he had just transcribed with a little accompaniment from the outer voices. It sounded pretty, and Quentin smiled.

“Such a life we could have—” He continued. “Can you see it?”

Eliot’s hands halted, still over the keys. 

“In a perfect world?” Eliot asked. 

Quentin nodded, sliding an arm around his waist, fingering at the hem of his waistcoat. 

“In a perfect world, I could be yours for everyone to see. No hiding, no fear. I would wear your ring upon my finger, and ladies would say how handsome we looked together and call us an excellent match. Only propriety would keep me from letting you kiss me on the mouth in public.”

Quentin laughed softly in his ear, bumping his head against Eliot’s shoulder. 

“I would be yours,” Quentin continued. “We would be— we would have a family, growing in number as the years passed.”

“Children?” Eliot said, abandoning the keys altogether and leaning their foreheads together. “You wish for children?”

Eliot’s voice came out a little broken. Quentin swallowed. 

“Of course I do, fatherhood has always been a dream of mine.” Quentin answered. “As a dutiful spouse I would provide you with an heir to carry on your name, and then more just to fill our halls with laughter and life. They would have your talent and my eyes, a dynasty of performers and artists to shape the future of culture in Europe.”

Eliot’s eyes fell shut. 

“Tell me more.” 

Quentin did. He closed his eyes and let himself dream of a new life, a different life. Quentin would teach and compose and take care of the little ones while Eliot toured the world with their eldest, a wonderful performer in his or her own right. And when Quentin did join him for his performances, Eliot would introduce him to colleagues and friends in the capacity he truly held: 

“‘May I introduce you to my husband’— Eliot wouldn’t that be sublime?”

Eliot’s hand tightened on Quentin’s waist, bunching his jacket in his fist. 

“Yes,” he breathed. “Yes it would be.” 

Suddenly Eliot stood, leaving Quentin cold and alone on the bench. 

Quentin frowned. “Is something wrong?”

Eliot ran his fingers through his hair, inhaling. Smiling. The first Quentin had seen that day– but far from the genuine grins Quentin to which was accustomed.

“Of course not, my love. I just– I remembered an urgent letter I need to send to Pickwick.”

He made for the writing desk, setting himself up there very much in the manner Quentin had found him earlier. He watched him, worry settling in his stomach.

“It was only idle musings.” Quentin’s said slowly. “I wished to make you smile. After last night— You know how I dream, but if I have offended—“

Eliot turned, his smile a plaster on his face. 

“You have not,” he said, his tone light as air. “I only just remembered the urgency of this letter.”

He returned to the blank sheet of paper before him, setting pen to paper and writing quickly. Quentin stood with a creak of the old piano bench, hesitating, waiting for Eliot to turn back to him. He didn’t, and Quentin made his exit. 

~

Eliot blew a cloud of smoke from his mouth, tapping his cigarette into the small dish Pickwick had provided for him. His agent’s office was small and cramped, stacked to the ceiling with programs and ledgers from concerts and clients past. Eliot usually requested that Pickwick meet him at his home, where they could be in more comfortable surroundings, but today was a… special circumstance. 

Dust swirled through the air as Pickwick tittered around the room, nervously searching through the stacks to find the one slip of paper he no doubt needed. 

“It must be somewhere in here…” Pickwick upended another stack of books, sighing when he once again came up short. 

“I would be glad to assist you, Tick.”

“No, no, that’s not necessary–”

Eliot didn’t offer further, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. He rubbed his eyes with his free hand, pinching the bridge of his nose. It had already been a trying day, what with Emperor having a fit of ill health during their meeting that morning and two of Eliot’s students coming woefully unprepared to their lessons. With the arrival of February came more social obligations, which meant more parties and performances that he just didn’t have the heart for, this time around. 

His eyes fell shut for a moment. Perhaps he could just take a rest while Pickwick located what he needed– 

_For when we make love you are nothing less than a spouse in my heart._

“Eliot? Are you ill?”

Eliot’s eyes snapped open, Quentin’s words a cacophonous echo in his mind. Pickwick stood before, a few sheets of paper in his hand, brow furrowed with worry. 

“No,” he said curtly, sitting up and stubbing his cigarette out. “Have you found it?”

Pickwick sprang to action. “Of course! Yes–” He laid the papers out on the desk in front of Eliot. “You’ll find it’s a standard contract, but Herr Reynard was particularly specific about–”

“Fine. Do you have a pen?” 

Eliot leaned forward, squinted at the looped handwriting of the contract as Pickwick scrambled to locate him a writing instrument. 

Once equipped, Pickwick pointed where he should mark his signature, and Eliot did. Pickwick babbled on and on about the intricacies of the contract, and Eliot let his mind wander. 

The two weeks after the opera had been arduous to say the least, what with both his and Quentin’s growing responsibilities and the new strain between them since that night. 

They played charades very well– to an outside onlooker it would look as if nothing had changed. They ate breakfast and dinner together when possible, listened to each other’s compositions, and fell into the same bed most nights. It was the time before sleep that was often dangerous, as it had been one night just a week after the opera.

“I don’t know why you insist on making something so simple into something so complicated,” Quentin had said while he sat on the bed, angrily pulling his boots from his feet. “Why would I take a court position?”

“I suppose the advancement of your career is not a good enough reason for you,” Eliot snapped back. “How silly of me to think that you valued your position as a composer.”

Quentin shook his head, grimacing. “Your sarcasm is unneeded– you know what I meant. Why on earth would I take a court position in _Weimar_ of all places?”

“It’s an honor to be asked to serve at court, Quentin, and you were foolish to turn it down,” Eliot said. “Now you have a German duke as an enemy–”

Quentin laughed humorlessly. “It was a job offer, not conscripted military service. I doubt the Duke will count me among his enemies just for turning down an offhand job offer.”

“Nothing is offhand here. You have _no idea_ how the Austrian aristocracy operates, this will stain your career! What reason could you possibly have to turn down such an offer?”

“I don’t wish to be away from you, isn’t that reason enough?”

Eliot clicked his tongue against his teeth. “You cannot always approach everything with such emotion.”

Quentin stared at him then, only the first few buttons of his waistcoat undone. 

“What have I done to be treated so coldly?” Quentin asked. “Tell me now, so that I might make it right.”

Quentin’s voice was broken but his chin had a stubborn tilt to it. There was the pride Eliot had seen upon their first meeting all those months ago. 

“Don’t be foolish. We both need sleep,” Eliot said. “We shall discuss it in the morning.”

The next morning came, and Quentin left early before any discussions could be had, heated or otherwise. That night Eliot thought to let the tensions ease and sought refuge in his marriage bed, but instead found himself barred from Margo’s chambers.

“I am your wife, not your mother,” he was informed, her hands sturdy on her hips in the doorway of her rooms. “You’ll not hide behind my skirts in order to avoid a perfectly solvable problem between you and your lover.”

So Eliot had slept alone, and had done so for a night or two since. The silence of his dressing room was lonely, but it was at least a respite from his frustrations over Quentin’s continued and deliberate obtuseness, and Margo’s misguided attempts at playing the stern governess to them both.

“And– one more here,” Pickwick said, drawing him back to the present with his prompts. Eliot swiped one last signature on the bottom of the contract. “And there we are.”

Eliot nodded, standing. He took his copy of the contract, stowing it in his jacket pocket. 

“Do you require anything else from me?” Eliot asked.

Pickwick shook his head, smiling blithely. “No, this is all. I will send this ahead to Reynard. I wish you luck!”

Eliot nodded, thanking Pickwick and leaving the office, the chilly February air like needles against his exposed skin. He lit another cigarette for the walk home, but it did little to warm him. All around him the well-dressed ladies of the aristocracy made their ways to the many calls that occupied each day of the season, the richest bundled in furs and others in wool shawls. Why Vienna insisted on having its most social time during the coldest part of the year was beyond his understanding. Up the street, a gentleman helped a young lady from a carriage with the touch of his gloved hand to hers. 

_Please don’t ask me to make a home with another before your very presence._

Someone called out to him in greeting, a couple across the street that must have seen his last concert. Eliot raised a hand, smiling in acknowledgment though his face felt frozen. 

_I could never marry while I am yet permitted in your embrace._

He threw the cigarette stub into the gutter, pulling his jacket tighter around him. He should have thought to bring a scarf.

_I would wear your ring upon my finger._

He took the steps up to the townhouse at a clip, outrunning the snow that had begun to fall and the voices in his head. He slammed the door behind him, closing out the cold with a rattle of the hingers. He leaned back against it, his top hat nearly falling to the ground. He closed his eyes. Breathed. 

“Sir?”

He opened his eyes, and Todd stood in front of him, eyeing him with open concern. 

“Are you alright, sir?” 

Eliot sighed, averting his eyes. “Yes, thank you Todd. Has Lady Margo arrived home yet?”

“Yes, I believe she is resting before dinner.” Eliot nodded, making to climb the stairs himself. Todd cleared his throat. “One more thing sir–”

Eliot turned, waiting. Todd fidgeted under his gaze. 

“Herr Coldwater wanted to see you,” Todd said, his voice betraying more worry than his words described. “I believe he’s still in your study.”

Eliot nodded, bracing one foot on the bottom stair. “I’ll see to him after I’ve changed.”

“Well,” Todd interrupted again. “You might not wait so long, sir. He seemed rather– anxious.”

A lump formed in Eliot’s throat, but he swallowed it, letting his foot fall to the carpet. 

“Thank you, Todd. I shall see what the fuss is about.”

He left his butler in the hall, taking careful steps toward the study. He walked slowly, letting his footsteps be silent. The door to his study was slightly ajar, a slip of light escaping into the hallway. He pushed it open. 

Quentin sat on the sofa, wearing one of his plain brown suits. His hair pulled into a messy bun at his nap, calling attention to the tense line of his mouth. He held a slip of paper in his hands– a letter, judging by the folds– staring at it with intensity. 

Eliot shut the door behind him, and waited for Quentin to look at him. After a few moments, Quentin cleared his throat.

“I’ve just received a letter from Julia,” he said, his gaze still locked on the paper before him.

Eliot realized he still held his hat in his hands. He turned it through his fingers nervously. 

“Julia Wicker?”

It was a stall, Quentin must have known. He only nodded. 

“Yes, Julia Wicker,” he said. He gestured down to the letter. “She says here that you are engaged for a European tour, for all of Spring and Summer, to culminate with a joint residency of concerts featuring the pair of you in Paris. What a novelty.”

“That is… correct.”

Quentin nodded, finally looking up at where Eliot stood. A tense jaw, dark eyes– Eliot had never see Quentin so angry.

“So when do we leave?” His voice was hostile, laced with sarcasm. “It says here that your first concert is in Hungary, only a fortnight away.”

“Quentin–”

“Don’t.” He shook his head. “I don’t need your protection, especially if you are protecting me from yourself. I wish for you to say it plainly.” 

Eliot took a step forward, dropping his hat to the floor and opening his hands. 

“I swear– I wanted to tell you, I didn’t keep this from you on purpose, I only–”

“Eliot.” Quentin’s voice cracked around his name. He set the letter on the sofa and stood, clasping his hands behind his back and coming to stand before him, their faces only inches apart. “Just the truth now. Please.”

This close, and Eliot could see the red rimming Quentin’s eyes. How he held his shoulders wide but tense, as if he could crumple at any moment. 

Eliot wet his lips, his words coming out thick and stilted. 

“I’m afraid… it is my wish to go on this tour alone. I’m leaving first thing tomorrow morning.”

Quentin nodded, his mouth pressing into an ugly line. 

“There it is.”

He pushed past him, reaching for the door.

“Quentin, wait–”

Quentin turned suddenly, gesturing wildly with his hand. 

“What?” he demanded, eyes wild. “What can you say now that will make this better?”

“I–” Eliot said, voice cracking, stumbling. “I never intended to hurt you.”

Quentin laughed, the sound bitter. 

“Never meant to– what truly stings, Eliot, is that I should have seen this coming. You have grown tired of me, of this ruse, of me _underfoot._ You needn’t go on a continental tour. If you wish for me to be gone, I will leave.”

“Are you so blinded by your own insecurity?” Eliot returned, his own anger beginning to burn beneath his sternum. “Dammit Quentin, I am a _touring pianist._ Do you think the emperor pays me enough to keep this house? To give Margo the life she deserves?”

Quentin shook his head. “Don’t stand there and blame Margo for this– I’m not daft, Eliot, you know I speak not of the tour itself, but of your so many secrets.”

Eliot laughed in disbelief. “I have _never_ once lied to you.”

“No, you’ve only withheld this information from me for weeks. I’ve felt since Christmas that you were withdrawing from me. I knew not if your affection for me was fading, or if I did something wrong, and then there was that business the night of the opera–”

“Why do you insist on dwelling on that?” Eliot shook his head, turning and walking deeper into the room. “You overanalyze.”

“Don’t _do_ that.” There were tears coloring Quentin’s voice. “Don’t make me feel as if this is the work of my imagination. You have comforted me through strife, you know me completely– and yet despite our time together so much of you remains a mystery to me. It is as if you don’t trust me– or don’t believe I’m worth the trouble– I should think that when you leave you would prefer if I would be gone by the time you return.” 

“That is the _last_ thing I wish,” Eliot said, turning once more to face him, plead with him. “But, we must be sensible. I merely think you should be free to pursue a life. A _real_ life without secrets or danger of discovery. Perhaps, with me gone, you will be able to make those choices, without the guilt that might keep you tethered here if I were to stay.” 

Quentin face was writ with heartbreak. 

“My, you have concocted for yourself so many pretty reasons. Say the truth then, this _is_ about the day after the opera, and what I said.” He bit his lip, looking to the ceiling and shaking his head. “If only I could take back my words on this subject I would, if God could strike them away from your memory I would do anything to make it so.”

“But you _did_ say them Quentin. You spoke of having a family, of _children–”_

“Yes, I wish for these things. I wish for them with all my heart, but I wish to have them with _you.”_

“Well we _cannot have them_.”

Eliot’s words were cold, and brutal, and the truth. Quentin stepped back, as if they were a blow. The pain in his eyes was a knife to Eliot’s heart, but what else could make him see reality? Eliot could play a charade to hand him flowers, they could turn touches to the piano into romantic gestures and gift their love to the hungry aristocrats, they could engrave cigarette cases and inscribe books with riddles, but anything more was a fantasy, one that would grow stale even to Quentin’s vivid imagination, Eliot was certain of it. 

There was no world but this one, and it was a world cruel to men like him.

“So,” Quentin started, no longer shouting. “You would rather I live false? Against my nature? As if I could live a life now where I do not love you.”

Eliot wanted to tear his hair from the root. “Your nature is not the same as mine. You have time and possibility on your side _.”_

“Time for what?” Quentin asked, throwing his hands up. “Time for loneliness? Time for scorn and ridicule from a family that has little interest in knowing me? With all I have spoken to you of my mother, you would think–”

“Your family might scorn your chosen career, but at least you are known to them! At least they don’t shirk away from your very personage.” Eliot very nearly yelled, his voice rough in his own throat. “Your mother hates your music, woe is you. I am the most celebrated artist on the continent, but my father would rather see me _dead._ ”

His words snapped through the air like a whip, taking with them all the air in the room. Eliot leaned against his desk, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“So yes,” he said, voice shaking. “I will take a tour, _alone,_ and I hope that you will see sense by the time I return. That you will think for yourself and for your future, or else you will open your eyes one day and look upon me only with regret for all the things I’ve taken from you.”

A touch, light as a feather, to his upper arm. 

“Eliot…”

Eliot straightened, brushing away Quentin’s hand. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, staving off the tears that waited there. He lowered them, brushing his hands over the lapels of his coat, and cleared his throat. 

“I believe some time apart will do us both some good.”

“Eliot, don’t–”

He made for the door, and Quentin grabbed for his arm, his voice tearful, desperate, _breaking,_ and Eliot couldn’t– he wouldn’t survive it if he turned back to see whatever tender forgiveness Quentin was no doubt willing to grant him– 

_“Eliot.”_

Margo stood in the doorway, taking in the sight of Quentin’s hand on Eliot’s arm, Quentin’s tearstained face. Eliot imagined they must be quite a sight. 

“My love,” Eliot said, the false cheer manic. “Did we wake you? Todd had said you were taking a nap?”

Margo pursed her lips, silencing him. His wife looked at him as if she were seeing him for the first time.

“Quentin, would you excuse us? Eliot and I have much to discuss.”

Quentin let his hand drop. He smoothed his hair back from his face. 

“I’m sorry for the noise, Margo,” he said. “Excuse me.”

Quentin strode from the room. Eliot flinched as he slammed the door behind him. 

Margo stood still, her face frozen in a deep frown, her hands folded over her bodice. She was dressed for dinner, her hair combed and smoothed after a day of calls, but underneath it all his wife looked tired. 

He turned away. A mess of half-full manuscript paper and sheet music covered his desk, scattered in no particular order. He swallowed, flipping open the closure of his attaché case, stuffing the papers inside without rhyme or reason. 

“I found Todd packing your trunk today,” Margo said.

“Did you?” Eliot returned, light and cheery once more. “I asked him to be discreet.”

“So that’s it, you’re leaving?” There was a clink of glass; Margo must have been pouring herself a drink.

“Indeed.” He shoved a copy of Quentin’s _Papillons_ into the case. “Pickwick thought that a northern European tour would be best, so I wont be going to Italy or Spain.”

A pause.

“England?” 

“Yes, then a backtrack through France. To avoid bad weather.”

There was a whistle of air past his ear and then a glass tumbler shattered against the wall beside Eliot’s head, the remains of Margo’s drink splattering against the wallpaper. It littered the carpet with many tiny fragments of glittering crystal. 

_“Look at me, you fool.”_

Margo’s voice was murder, a black hole that threatened to swallow him, body and soul. When he turned, her lip was curled in a snarl, her hands clenched into fists. 

“You will not ignore me now,” she said. “You will face me. You will tell me why you have lied to me these past weeks. And don’t,” she held up a hand, cutting him off before he could interject, “Don’t feed me the same nonsense you gave Quentin.”

“I don’t see what _either_ of you are fussing about,” Eliot said frustratedly. “I am a pianist. I have been contracted for a tour, one that will make us a great deal of money that will allow us to keep this house another year.”

“I don’t object to the money, only my exclusion from the making of this decision.”

Eliot laughed, running a hand through his hair. “What objection could you have to me going on tour?”

“Don’t make me repeat your lover’s words.” Eliot flinched. It was the second time she had mentioned Quentin, poking the still-fresh wound. “I object to your insistence that you should leave, and that you should undertake this alone.”

Eliot shook his head, breaking her gaze to stride over to the piano, sorting through the in-progress compositions resting on the stand. 

“I hardly think that is reason to break our wedding crystal, Bambi.”

Margo laughed darkly. “You’re worse than the ladies at court. Content to pull the wool over your own eyes and live in a world of your own making.”

“You wish for honesty? You shall have it. I’m leaving so that Quentin might see how our affair is damaging the prospects for his future. How every moment we risk discovery, Irene McCallister is already sniffing around, bent on finding something that will ruin me– and even without the danger, there is still no _future_ for him here–”

“What of our future, Eliot? You are leaving me to the wolves at the height of the social season. What of your obligations to the Emperor?”

Eliot waved a hand. “The Emperor is in ill health– I spoke to him today and he will barely notice my departure.”

“It’s not just court, Eliot. What reason will I give for you leaving for _another_ spring, when last year was enough to cause gossip so vile that it has taken me a year to set it right?”

“You exaggerate.”

 _“I_ exaggerate? You speak of money, as if that is the only thing that sustains us in this world. Why do you think I spend all day jostling around in a carriage, dragged from call to call, teatime to teatime, pressed and primped up like the ideal Viennese wife– we will _always_ be a scandal, Eliot, and you being here, present, keeps us from lapsing back into shame. Or do you not remember the first months of our marriage?”

Eliot pursed his lips, remembering the cold stares from the gentry who had once been so friendly to him, thinking him a cad musician bent on ruining a good lady of character and family. 

“That is precisely why I took you on my last tour, to wait out such nonsense,” he said, shaking his head. “This time there is no need for such extremes. I see how happy you are to be settled, I couldn’t uproot your life again.”

“You see only what you wish to see, through the cloud of your own fear.” She took another glass, pouring a generous serving of whiskey. It wasn’t their usual drink, only taken in times of duress. “You’re a coward.”

Eliot snapped his case shut, the sound likened to a gunshot in the small room tense with their anger.

“If you are so nervous about attending parties and balls unescorted, take Quentin,” He jerked his chin towards the door where Quentin had made his exit. “He is a gentleman by birth, and you wouldn’t have to suffer the gossip about me.”

She barked a laugh. “Oh, yes, I’ll appear at dinner parties on the arm of an unmarried man. I’ll bring him to court while I’m at it,” Margo retorted. “That will _really_ get them talking.”

“Good, let them talk,” Eliot snapped. “For once we can have some whispers over your behavior instead of mine.” 

“There _are_ no whispers over you, Eliot, not the kind to which you refer,” Margo growled, gesturing wildly enough for her drink to slosh over the side of the glass. “Because I have threatened and coaxed and paid off every slender waiter and winsome bellhop from here to London to make it so!” 

“If I am such a _burden_ to you, it is just as well that I am going!” he declared, his voice mocking and cold. “You might indulge in a brief peace without my constant indiscretions, _Lady_ Margo.”

They stared at each other, the clock ticking loudly on the mantel the only break in the silence. Eliot broke the gaze first, looking down at his shoes. 

“This is not about us. If I leave,” he started, his voice hoarse from yelling. “Quentin will see reason. He will see that our lives cannot follow the same path, and that he must think of himself.”

She set the glass down, taking steps towards toward him. 

“Quentin loves you.”

Eliot shut his eyes, shaking his head. 

“No, he is only–”

“Eliot.” She waited until he opened his eyes. “Quentin doesn’t want to leave you. He wants his future to be with you.”

“But what future can you foresee that I am blind to?” Eliot pleaded. “Our affair– it is not– This is a _dalliance_ , a lovely distraction, until Quentin finds his settled life. Why can’t you see that?”

“You think yourself so unwholesome.” Margo took his arm, forcing him to look at her. “I have seen your dalliances. Is that why you brought Quentin here? Uprooted his life? For a trifle? For _sex?_ ”

Eliot clenched his jaw. “Don’t be crude.”

“I am only crude because the words you speak are _cruel_ , Eliot. You wish to cast him aside, acting as some sort of teacher that will show him the ways of the world. Have you told this man that you love him?”

Eliot’s breath shook. “Yes.”

“Was it a lie?”

Eliot shook his arm from her grip. “Of course not.”

“Then why run?” She asked. “Why throw away a bond that clearly brings you joy?”

“There is no future in it!” He yelled, “I am a married court composer— I have,” he swallowed, throat thick. “I have no children to secure my name and reputation, I already live entirely too freely. How could we live as we do? In the long term?”

“How could you not?”

He scoffed, shaking his head. 

“You think Quentin is simple. He can’t possibly believe that our arrangement would last forever. He denies it out of chivalry, guilt over the aid I given him, but he’s clever. He knows.”

Margo raised her eyebrows. “Does he?”

He grabbed another stack of papers, rifling through them. “It’s only logical.”

“Oh so it is Quentin’s logic that attracted you to him?”

Eliot made a dismissive noise in his throat.

“Or was it his mere availability, or his vulnerability?”

Eliot glared at her. “You insult me, madam.”

Margo took the papers from his hands, setting them on the sofa. 

“I insult because I know it to be false. But these are the messages you send when you go behind our backs and conspire to leave without telling anyone except Pickwick. How do you imagine Quentin is feeling?"

He shrugged. “Life is not only composed of feeling. I have obligations.”

“To what? The the public? To me? You know I only wish for your happiness. If you wanted to tour I would have gone with you, and Quentin would surely have as well. I’m sure you could have manufactured some excuse.” 

Eliot ran a hand through his frazzled hair. He needed a haircut. A change of scenery. _Space_ so that he could _breathe_. He hadn’t drawn a full breath since Quentin Coldwater had rose from the crowd to receive his applause that first night in Leipzig. 

“Do you not see, that I wish for things between Quentin and I to be as we have them with Idri?” Eliot said, pleading for her to understand. “Warm regard, intimate friendship, fond memories—“ Eliot could hardly force the words out, the prospect filled him with such cold dread, but this was how it would _have to be_ “— _memories_ of shared passion. That is the course we must steer toward. That is the only way I will be permitted to keep him, and if the cost is distance I will pay it, lest I burn through his love too quickly and lose him forever.”

“But you were never Idri’s great love, yet you are Quentin’s, and you are mine,” Margo replied, the anger in her voice ceding to broken emotion. “Eliot, you cannot pretend that you could ever bury your heart so deeply. Let us come with you, let us find the path forward together. I have never asked you to solve the troubles of our lives alone, and I’m not about to begin now.”

“It is not right for me to uproot you when you are so happy and settled in Vienna,” he said. “And Quentin… he would have come to this conclusion independently of me. There is no need to delay the inevitable.”

When he looked up, Margo regarded him tenderly. The hair on the back of his head stood on end. 

“Quentin is not Idri,” Margo said quietly. “Nor is he Mikhail.”

There it was. 

“Quentin is not cold-hearted,” she continued. “This won’t end the same way.”

Eliot leaned heavily into the desk, his anger burning a hole in his chest. “You speak of matters you do not understand. This has nothing to do with Mikhail.”

“I know the heartbreak you felt when he left, when he proved so false and cold—“

Eliot smiled tightly, turning away. “If you truly understood you would know that Mishka... _Mikhail_ was not at fault.” He stuffed several unfinished compositions into another folio. He would have to see if Pickwick has arranged for him to have apartments with a piano in Berlin. He always forgot these things. “You would know that I had made unfounded assumptions concerning his intentions. It should have never gotten so far.”

“You were a boy, Eliot,” she continued, unfettered. “You were young and he made you think—“

“How _dare_ you throw my mistakes back at me— I know how foolish I was then, I know that I created a mess for myself—“

Margo looked horrified. 

“Oh, my dear, it was not you who was the fool. I did not know you truly still placed blame on _yourself_ —“

“Stop.” Eliot held up his hand, closing his eyes. 

“Eliot…”

“ _Stop.”_ He opened his eyes, clasping his hands behind his back. “You did not know me then. I told you about my past in confidence, not to use to manipulate me later.”

Margo shook her head, mouth stiff in disgust. 

“You must think so little of me,” she said. “ _Manipulation_ — when I.” She turned away, throwing her hands up. “I don’t believe this is only about Quentin. You are hell-bent on proving to yourself that he and I both would benefit from your absence. I know–” she stopped him when he opened his mouth. “You have your reasons. My eyes are unclouded with new love, however. I have been your wife for three years, and I see you. I see how afraid you are, and how you will hurt anything that dares get too close to your heart.”

She smoothed her hands over her skirts, collecting herself. 

“I’ll be in my room, Fen will bring me a tray. I will not be coming to breakfast.”

Without a goodbye, she turned and left, only the click of her heels and the swish of her skirts accompanying the hammering of Eliot’s heartbeat. 

He clenched his fists by his sides, his fingernails digging into his palms. Looking down at his feet, he saw several pieces of sheet music littering the floor. They must have slipped from the desk during their argument. He stooped down, gathering them into a pile when he saw another sheet of paper to his side, sitting on the arm of the sofa. Quentin had left Julia Wicker’s letter there.

He picked it up, sitting down on the sofa as he began to read. He recognized Julia’s handwriting, having signed a contract also marked by her signature earlier that day. What with both Quentin and Margo’s anger behind it now, it seemed like a lifetime ago. He scanned the page quickly, skimming over pleasantries until he found his name. 

_… I’m sure you are excited for your teacher, Herr Waugh, as he and I have entered into an agreement that will benefit us both. I look forward to the tour, though I am sad to travel again so soon after Russia. Will you be joining him? He made quite the mark with your concerto (I read three reviews, all so very complimentary: Bravo!), and I’m sure you have proven your value to him. I hope I can expect to see you in Paris this summer, we could play duets as we used to…_

Eliot crumpled the paper in his hand, unable to read on. He had seen Julia’s letters to Quentin before. Either she was deliberately callous, or just awkward in the ways of the written word. It didn’t matter, he knew it was not the way Quentin should have found out.

Soft footsteps in the hallway gave him pause, and he lifted his eyes, hoping to see Quentin standing in the doorway, his hair eschew and smiling– perhaps this had all been a bad dream, a trick of the light. But the gait was wrong, too steady. 

“Oh, Franz–?”

Franz had been speeding by the open study door, and when Eliot called to him he turned white as a sheet. _Wonderful,_ Eliot thought. _Even the servants are angry with me._

“Would you see that Herr Coldwater has a tray brought to his room?” Eliot swallowed, his quality of his voice altered after his fight with Margo. “I don’t think we will be sitting down to dinner tonight.”

Franz shifted uncomfortably. “I already did, sir. He– he didn’t wish to eat.”

Eliot bit his lips. “Ah. I see. Well then, please pass on my apologies to Frau Schiller. None of us have much of an appetite tonight.”

Franz nodded, mortified. “Yes, sir.”

Eliot dismissed him and closed the study door behind him, climbing the stairs and retiring to his dressing room. He shed his jacket and rang for Todd, sitting on the bed and letting his head fall into his hands. Todd entered with sure footsteps, his tone of voice strong and unshaken. 

“Your trunk is packed, sir,” he said, already taking Eliot’s jacket in hand and straightening the seams before hanging it in the closet. “I already fetched your case from the study. I have found two inns on the road to Pest that can provide serviceable pianos, so we are all set on that front.” 

He stood deliberately in front of Eliot, waiting. He sighed, and standing and unbuttoning his waistcoat and shirt to give to Todd.

“Thank you, sir. Would you like the silk robe this evening? It’s a trifle warmer, I thought you might–”

“Yes, that’s fine.”

“How early would like to wake tomorrow? I was thinking you should take breakfast here in case we meet any weather and are delayed getting to the inn later–”

“Whatever you think is best.”

Eliot sat back on the bed, wrapped in his robe but still chilled to the bone. 

“Are you,” Todd started, gathering his thoughts. “Is there anything you will be needing tonight, sir?”

Eliot huffed a laugh, looking down at his feet. “No, thank you, Todd.”

“And are you alright, sir?”

Eliot looked up. Todd stood by the door with his shirt and trousers over one arm, feet together like a soldier. 

“At least I still have you, Todd.”

Todd nodded. “You do, sir.”

Eliot nodded in return. “Get some rest. We both have a long journey ahead of us tomorrow.”

Todd bowed, softly shutting the door behind him. 

Eliot lied back, dozing only slightly on top of the covers. In his dreams, he saw Margo, dressed in her wedding dress, the pink so soft against her skin. They had laughed together about how extremely puffy the sleeves had been, Margo asking for more stuffing until she resembled a whipped cream confection. As the dream continued, Quentin was there, his expression alit with happiness as they three stood at the altar at St. Stephen’s Cathedral. His hand was laced with Margo’s, his waistcoat cheerful yellow and dotted with rosettes to complement the flowers in Margo’s hair. Before Eliot could return their smiles and take their hands in his, the dream faded, and Eliot fell into darkness punctuated by three soft thumps.

He woke with a start, realizing that the sound he dreamt were knocks against the door. 

He cleared his throat, head still spinning. “Come in.”

The door opened with a creak, and Quentin stepped through, face mostly lost in shadow. 

“Eliot?”

Eliot sat up, pulling the closure of his robe closed and tying it. “I’m here.”

Quentin shut the door, and Eliot struck a match and lit the candle on his bedside table. Once thrown into the light, Quentin’s gaze roamed over the small sprawl of Eliot’s chambers. It was a smaller room than Quentin’s, and definitely not as grand as Margo’s, a room intended for dressing and storage. Eliot couldn’t remember if Quentin had ever set foot in the room before. 

“You didn’t come to me,” Quentin said, clasping his hands behind his back. 

“I thought you had already gone to sleep.”

Quentin looked down at himself. He had shed his jacket but was still dressed for the day, his boots laced. 

“How could I sleep?”

Eliot shrugged. “I thought that you might not wish to see me.”

When their eyes met again, Quentin’s shone bright in the flame’s flicker. His steps were a whisper against the Persian rug. He stopped in front of Eliot, bending at the waist to press a kiss to his forehead. 

“I didn’t mean to wake you. I only want to say goodnight,” he whispered against his skin. Eliot’s eyes fluttered closed. “And safe travels, should our paths not cross in the morning.”

He turned to go, trailing a hand through Eliot’s hair as if to prolong the connection. He would be gone in seconds, disappearing down the hall and out of Eliot’s life for months and months and months— months that could turn into forever. 

Suddenly, devastatingly, Eliot loved him. 

He reached out, grabbing Quentin’s hand and reeling him back. Spinning around, Quentin came easily. 

Eliot pulled him down to the bed, taking his face between two hands and kissing him hard. Quentin opened to him, gasping as Eliot pressed their tongues alongside each other. Eliot took his mouth, tilting his head until they couldn’t be closer and Quentin keened from deep in his throat– a needy sound that set Eliot’s heart racing. He pulled back, scrambling to pull the cravat from Quentin’s neck. It was replaced with Eliot’s lips the moment his neck was free. 

“We shouldn’t,” Quentin said as he let his head roll back to make room for Eliot’s mouth. “Margo— She was so upset—“

Quentin’s reasoning died on his tongue the moment Eliot cupped a hand over his groin. He moaned, and Eliot set to work on the buttons of his trousers and the ties of his drawers, pressing Quentin onto his back to better pull them from his body. He let his robe fall to the ground behind him as Quentin reached for him, pulling him back onto the bed and on top of him. 

Quentin kissed like a man possessed, biting at Eliot’s bottom lip before dipping his tongue inside, urging him with his hands to lie flat on top of him. Eliot gave— opened his mouth and ground their hips together until Quentin was slick and leaking against him. Quentin protested weakly when Eliot pulled away to find the small bottle of oil, returning with slick fingers. He prepared him quickly, one finger to coat him. He slicked himself up next and pressed the head of his cock to his entrance. 

Quentin pushed against him. Too hard, too fast. 

“Eliot, please, I need you— need you— _my love—_ “

Eliot covered his mouth with his own and entered him, slow as he could. Quentin gasped into his mouth, spreading his knees further as he adjusted. Eliot cupped the back of his head, licking deep into his mouth. Slowly, he pressed in again. 

Quentin made a noise like he was being split, sobbing and clinging to him like that the last lifeboat amongst the ruins of a sinking vessel. Eliot was both enemy and solace, pain and pleasure. 

“Please, please— ah—“

 _Please what, my darling?_ Eliot responded in his mind only, succumbing to his dream world, where Quentin was his alone, and the world was not cold and cruel. _You should only have to ask and it would be yours. I would give it to you. Anything in my power—_

Eliot put a stopper to his thoughts, focusing his mind in the physical realm, searching and grasping Quentin’s wrists and pressing them above his head as he fucked into him fast and relentless. He pressed his tongue to his nipple and reveled in how Quentin arched against him, tightened around him. His lover was velvet against his skin, water to his parched throat. 

His own orgasm began to build but he staved off, slowing down, waiting for Quentin’s eyes to flutter open and meet his again. They did, his eyes dark with pleasure but clouded with the pain of his heart. 

Eliot cupped his face, releasing his hands. 

“My darling—“

Quentin immediately clung to him, wrapping his arms and legs around him and chasing each thrust with an undulation of his hips. Their bodies were slick with the prolongation of their passions— it had to end soon. 

Quentin came barely touched, spilling from only a few strokes of Eliot’s hand. Eliot fucked him through it, wringing it from him until he babbled nonsense. His hands fell slack from Eliot’s body and rested palms-up beside his head, his breath sensitive hitches as he received— taking whatever Eliot gave. His eyes were liquid, dark and full, and Eliot hid his face against his shoulder, unable to meet them. Only then did Eliot pull out of him, stripping his cock with a few frantic pulls. With a choked moan he spent himself on Quentin’s abdomen.

Eliot lowered himself to his elbows, catching his breath. He pressed a soft kiss to Quentin’s shoulder and he brushed a hand through Eliot’s curls, pulling his fingers through them slowly. Eliot shivered. The bed was narrower than the bed in the guest room, calling to mind the narrow bed they had once shared in Leipzig, the way it had brought them so close. In the aftermath of pleasure, they might still be in that boardinghouse, new in love and thinking only of the present, counting every moment they could share before Eliot would be forced to sneak out the back door. The moments passed, however, and as their sweat cooled against their skin there was no choice but to think of the coming morning, where Eliot would slip away again. While he might take the front door and a fine carriage, it was a coward’s escape. In this at least Margo had spoken the truth earlier. Eliot met Quentin’s eye and saw that his lover felt the same as his wife. He had to look away, rather than face it.

Eliot sunk down onto his side and Quentin’s hand fell from him. Without a word Eliot rose, shivering in the night air, and found a small cloth and dipped it in the basin of water on his dresser. He returned to the bed, carefully swiping the cloth through the mess on Quentin’s stomach and between his legs. 

“I’m sorry,” Eliot said as he worked. 

Quentin cocked his head, watching him. 

“Why?”

Eliot sighed, tossing the cloth into a basket by the bed. He stretched out beside him. 

“Usually, when we fight over music or small things, there is a way I can make it make it right. But this…” He trailed off, running his fingers over Quentin’s chest, over his heart, the skin still damp from the cloth. 

Quentin pursed his lips, turning onto his side so that they faced each other. 

“It’s not only your fault.”

Eliot leaned his head on his hand, brow furrowed. “How so? I’m leaving you. Proving your fears.”

Quentin laughed, but it was a chiding, ugly sound. 

“I don’t blame you. Not entirely.”

Eliot frowned. Stayed silent. The cogs were turning in Quentin’s brain. He could see the workings behind his eyes. 

“When I was a child,” Quentin started, voice thick. “I broke a vase that had been my grandmother’s. My mother told me I would always have a penchant for breaking things.” 

Eliot smoothed his hair back, picturing Quentin as a quiet, unassuming child, his hair too long and always tangled. “You know that isn’t true.”

He shrugged. “Do I? You’re leaving me. Speak as nobly as you please about the ways of the world, Eliot, but I will remain convinced that this somehow stems from my shortcomings. Whether as a musician or a lover, I can’t begin to guess. Either way, my nature is only to be angry with myself.”

Eliot’s heart ached in his chest. He stroked Quentin’s waist. He leaned in, and his breath was warm against Eliot’s chest. 

“I have made my feelings for you known, many times,” Eliot said quietly, pleading. “You must know I love you.”

“I have never asked you to prove it.” Quentin lifted his face. “I do know. Do you know I love you?”

Eliot suppressed a shudder. How could a man who had been ignored most of his life, scorned by his own mother, give of himself so selflessly? He had known since he first spoke with Quentin that he would love him, that he would hold him dear in his heart. He had not spared a moment to think that Quentin would ever love him as such in return. Eliot had known the love of thousands, and yet this he couldn’t accept— how could he? How could he deserve such a man? 

The answer was that he didn’t. If Eliot believed Quentin now, how much more pain would he have to bear when his lover realized his mistake? 

“I won’t ask you to wait for me,” he said instead of acknowledging Quentin’s words, stroking his thumb back and forth along Quentin’s smooth skin. “But you can stay here as long as you wish. Margo would never speak against it.”

Hurt crossed Quentin’s face.

“I am not Margo,” Quentin said, and Eliot knew they were not speaking of housing arrangements. “I am not— I know I can’t offer you marriage. Or social standing, or wealth. I cannot begin to return to you what you have given me. I can only tell you of my love and hope you will believe me before you break both of our hearts on this crusade.”

“Quentin…”

Quentin sighed and slipped from the bed, tossing his shirt over his head and gathering the rest of his clothes that had been left on the ground. 

Eliot sat up, heart pounding. “Stay, let me hold you tonight.”

Quentin pursed his lips, shaking his head. “No, I think this is best.” He hugged his trousers to his chest.

When his hand descended to the doorknob, Eliot found his voice once more. 

“It is I who can’t offer you marriage, Quentin. I who don’t deserve you.” His voice cracked on his name. “You deserve more than I can give you. A full life. You mustn’t— don’t let sentiment bind you to me, for when you have spent your best years on me you will awaken and see that all along my hands were empty.”

Quentin turned the knob, turning once he was halfway over the threshold. In the flicker of the candlelight, Eliot saw the wet trails of tears on his face. 

“You have given me everything, Eliot,” he said quietly. “But I— I cannot make you see that. I wish to God I could.”

The door shut softly behind him, and Eliot was alone. It would be many hours yet before he could find his rest. 

~

The carriage had arrived, he had a new overcoat on his back for the cold journey, and his trunk and other belongings were secure. Frau Schiller had packed them food for the journey, and Todd readied his own belongings before their departure. Margo had shut herself up in her apartments, refusing to say goodbye. It was just as well. 

Only one obstacle obstructed his exit.

Quentin leaned against the open door frame, idly smoking a cigarette. Eliot hadn’t joined him for breakfast, hoping to make a coward’s escape. But there Quentin had been, waiting for him. His hair was loose around his face, the way Eliot preferred it, his mouth set in a deep frown. 

Once he saw him, Quentin tossed the cigarette away onto the paved stoop outside the door, grinding it under his heel. 

“I hope you find your journey pleasant.” he said. “I hear the south is much warmer this time of year.”

Eliot pursed his lips, standing taller. “Yes. It can be.”

Quentin cleared his throat. “Your countrymen will be overjoyed to see you, I imagine. Hungary must love to see such a successful native son.”

Eliot nodded, adjusting his grip on his case. 

“Would you let my wife know of my departure? I don’t wish to disturb her.”

“I shall. I hope you write to her, Eliot. Margo is angry now, but she will miss you terribly.”

Eliot let the name of his wife hang in the air, his lover’s mouth wrapped around the syllables as if he were privy to the complexities of Eliot’s life– to the _sacrifices_ he had made. Quentin didn’t understand. Neither of them did. 

He picked up his bag, gripping the handle hard. 

“I trust you will write, as well,” he said, brushing past Quentin and into the cool grey of the winter morning. “I would like to be kept abreast of the events in my home, so long as you remain here.”

“Eliot.”

Quentin turned to face him where Eliot stood on the frozen walkway. Through his heartache, Eliot tried to burn the vision of him into his memory. His hands, broad and musical, along with his open and honest face. 

His mouth opened and closed it, as through he might still find the words that would resolve all of their tribulations. That perhaps the right platitude would erase the workings of the world, and Eliot would drop his bags and take him in his arms, his tour forgotten with little more than a quick note of apology to Herr Reynard.

“Quentin.” Eliot’s reply was a plea, an order, a sigh of exhaustion all released together in two syllables. Quentin’s mouth pinched, but he nodded. 

“Safe travels, then, Herr Waugh.”

Eliot nodded, turning away to walk down the path towards the waiting carriage. He handed his bag to Todd, and entered the dark interior without looking back. As the coach pulled away from the curb, Eliot tasted the bitterness of success. Todd sat across from him, taking a passenger’s place in the coach since Eliot was travelling without a more genteel companion. He tried to convince himself that there was no pity in his valet’s eyes, but he and Todd had known each other too many years now. 

“If it’s not too bold, sir,” Todd said after some moments, the carriage leaving their home behind and with it Eliot’s entire heart. “Might I ask if you’re familiar with the notion of a Pyrrhic victory?”

Eliot pulled a flask from the inside pocket of his overcoat. It was engraved, not unlike the cigarette case he had gifted Quentin at Christmas. He unscrewed the top and took a generous draught of the brandy that Margo had gifted him on that very same morning. It burned as he swallowed. 

“Yes, Todd,” he replied. “I’m afraid I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning details (~~~SPOILERS~~~~)  
> ~  
> ~  
> ~  
> Eliot initiates a consensual sex act with Quentin, but it is made apparent that he is trying to hurt himself, or use Quentin for that purpose. Quentin refuses to participate.  
> ~
> 
> In case you missed it on tumblr, we now have a youtube playlist for this fic. Find it [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TF280ui9m4s&list=PLRT8dIyT2aOOGedE3gl7_0wcfDYKmX_LA)! 
> 
> Thank you everyone for sticking with us on this epic journey! Rest assured, we know where this story goes, and writing it is a pleasure we can't wait to share with you. There is still much love to come <3333


	15. Intermezzo 2: Fen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes to move forward, you must go back...
> 
> This chapter takes place three years before our story, this time from the point of view of our favorite lady's maid, Fen.

_Sorrowful and great is the artist’s destiny._

– Franz Liszt

_December, 1834  
_ _Vienna, Austria_

It was the first miserably chill day of winter when the Waughs’ seemingly never ending honeymoon came to a halt. 

Fen was still getting used to their new residence, a lovely townhouse that Herr Waugh had purchased when the newlyweds had returned from his European tour. What a joyful day that had been, the servants tittering in the front garden as Herr Waugh swept his bride off her feet and carried her across the threshold, the volume of her skirts draped luxuriously across his arm. Fen could still see Lady Margo’s breathless grin, hear her thrilled laughter. The few months since had been a happy experiment, Lady Margo and Herr Waugh in charge of their own house for the first time and the servants learning how to best serve their often idiosyncratic employers. Despite the supposed unorthodoxy of their arrangement— mostly not spoken of among the servants but hardly a secret— Fen had learned Lady Margo and her husband were much like any new married couple in that she should certainly knock before entering a room or risk witnessing intimacies meant only to be shared between man and wife. It would seem the master and lady of the house were taking the business of child-making very seriously. 

It was therein that lay the problem. Nothing had been discussed where servants could hear, but they were all of them counting the months in their heads. More than half a year on tour, plus the months in Herr Waugh’s cramped court apartments while they searched for their new home, then the moving and their new residence— and yet, no children. Fen would know more than most at the house, as she attended to Lady Margo’s more delicate personal needs. Her lady’s monthlies were more reliable than a well wound clock. Their arrival was beginning to bring with them a certain anxiety, to both Herr Waugh and Lady Margo. 

_These things take time_ , _darling_ , Lady Margo assured her husband, but it was two months ago now that Fen had accompanied her mistress to a certain kind of doctor. Her doctor had pronounced Lady Margo to be in perfect health, and no answers had been revealed. It had taken two months and many a piece of bizarre fertility advice— Lady Margo had sprinkled parsley on every bite of food she ate for six weeks— before Herr Waugh had sought out a doctor of his own. Today, he had returned home— with Todd behind him looking solemn as the grave— and it was clear the root of the problem had been discovered. Lady Margo met him in the foyer.

“Margo.” Herr Waugh rung the brim of his top hat between his fingers. Snow melted in fat droplets from the shoulders of his overcoat. “My darling, I’m _sorry_.”

He drew her into his embrace, as though he feared it would be the final time he was allowed. Lady’s Margo’s fisted her hands in her husband’s overcoat, and while her face revealed only anger it was a bitter sob that escaped her throat as Todd and Fen quietly made their exit. 

Eventually the couple vanished into Lady Margo’s rooms. Dinner, nearly made, was declined. Frau Schiller served up roast sausage and winter squash to the servants instead, lest it go to waste, but Fen could hardly touch the sumptuous meal. She could see Todd across the table in equal distress. The others did not yet know, and it was neither of their place to reveal their employer’s troubles. 

It was hours before the bell rang, summoning Fen to help Lady Margo change for bed. She took to the stairs with worry weighing down her steps. She didn’t know how much of her usual cheerfulness would be welcome, nor did she want to assume to know her lady’s sorrow. 

Fen paused outside Lady Margo’s chamber when she heard the low murmur of Herr Waugh’s voice on the other side of the door. That at least filled her with some relief, that husband and wife could look to each other for solace as well as joy. She raised her hand to knock when the shape of a word reached her ears that gave her pause. 

“—an annulment. Darling, I wouldn’t hold it against you for a moment. After all, I promised you children, and you still have time—if you married another—that is to say I’m certain the bishop would hear your petition—“

Herr Waugh’s words cut off with the sharp sound of a slap. Fen could hardly contain her gasp. 

“How _dare_ you.” Lady Margo’s words were almost too soft to hear, but never had Fen heard such anger in her voice. “I am your _wife_. Such a vow will not simply be undone at the word of some cleric, and you will not be allowed a coward’s retreat from this marriage that you pretend is for my benefit!” 

The lady’s voice rose to a crescendo, until she ended on a near shout. 

“Margo—my love I would never—“ 

“And you think me so fickle, that I would betray you at the first opportunity?” Lady Margo’s voice was softer now, and rough, and Fen’s heart hurt because she knew Lady Waugh’s strength hid a fragile heart. 

“Get out.” 

“Please, Margo—“

“ _Get out.”_

Fen leapt back from the door just as it swung open and Herr Waugh stepped out, a hand pressed to his reddened cheek. 

”Begging your pardon, sir,” she said. “I was just coming to help my lady dress for bed.” 

Herr Waugh nodded, his brow furrowed and his eyes dry but red. His normally proud frame was stooped low. 

“...is everything alright, sir?” Fen offered, though she feared overstepping her bounds. “I could ring for Todd, if you needed anything.” 

“No.” Herr Waugh winced at his own sharp tone, then said again, gentler: “No Fen, thank you. I’ll feel much better if Lady Waugh is taken care of.” 

Fen dipped a short curtsey. “I’ll do my best, sir.” 

Lady Margo was hardly in a better state than her husband. Sat at her vanity, she wiped stubbornly at her face with a handkerchief, tossing it aside as though Fen wouldn’t see it discarded among several others on the dressing table.

“Are you well, my lady?” 

“Of course I am.” Lady Margo’s voice was hard, her back turned. She looked up at Fen in the mirror and her eyes were red rimmed. “I am hardly allowed to be anything but, or this house may very well collapse around our damned ears by the time Eliot gives up his self-flagellating.” 

Fen dipped her head. “As you say my lady. Might I help you take out your hair pins?” 

Lady Margo nodded, and Fen set about her work. A small pile of pins grew on the vanity, and the lady’s hair fell about her shoulders curl by curl. 

“Forget what I said, please Fen,” Lady Margo said after some moments. “It’s not right for a lady to speak of her husband in such a way.” 

Fen smiled. “You know it will never be repeated by my lips.” 

Margo offered her a tentative smile in return. 

“I do know. Thank you.”

“Of course. If it’s not too bold, my lady,” she said, “I do think all will come out right in the end. Herr Waugh is too devoted to force you apart.”

“He’ll forget such thoughts.” Lady Margo held her chin high, as thought she willed the words to be so. “Fen, he _must_ , or I’m not sure how I will carry on.” 

Fen took the liberty of setting her hand on her lady’s shoulder, only meaning to offer reassurance. Lady Margo covered her hand with her own, and squeezed it briefly. 

“Now then, my lady, shall we get you out of this gown?”

* * *

It was a solemn air for the next several days as the staff slowly realized that there would be no children coming to fill the empty bedroom set aside for the nursery. Fen couldn’t have said how they knew, as she had certainly said nothing of what she heard and she knew Todd would likely die before he shared Herr Waugh’s business, but the knowledge remained. It was as though it had seeped into the very walls to leave them all in a state of listless melancholy to match their employers’, along with an unsettling tension that worsened as the days passed and the master and lady of the house continued to sleep apart.

Frau Schiller had little patience for everyone’s poor spirits, and remained doggedly cheerful as she baked day and night, as though she might stumble upon the perfect dessert and make everything right again.

“Do stop looking so morose,” she urged them over carrot cake that evening in the servants’ quarters. “This is a great sadness, but the lord works in mysterious ways.”

“It ain’t that mysterious though, is it?” Mueller the groom asked. He was young, and a bit bold to speak for Fen’s taste. “Why no little ones. Pretty clear message if you ask me. The almighty doesn’t care for the master of the house being queer.”

Fen was rightly shocked at the loud clatter that followed as Todd knocked over his own chair to drag the groom from his seat by his lapels and pin him to the pantry door, a look of anger on his face as Fen had never in her life seen. 

“You’ll be silent Mueller, if you know what’s good for you.”

Franz and Irina made themselves quite busy with their own plates at their end of the table, while Fen thought Frau Schiller looked nearly pleased at the butler’s outburst. Todd was the most senior of them all when it came to running the house, but normally his corrections came with a quiet word and good humor. Mueller looked more shocked than any of them of course, his collar tight around his throat. 

“Todd, bloody hell—” 

“I’m sorry, do you have other opinions you’d like to share?” Todd demanded, giving Mueller a good shake. “Perhaps you could visit your sister and share them with her in her hospital ward, the one Herr Waugh pays more than your fair wage to _keep her in_.” 

That seemed to put the fear of God in the young groom. 

“I didn’t mean anything by it, I swear,” he said. “I only...I mean, that’s the way of things, isn’t it? I ain’t saying I’ve anything strong to say about it.”

“You’d better not, or you’ll be looking for another house to serve, _without_ a reference, and that will be the least of your troubles after I’ve dealt with you.” 

“Todd, dear, I think he’s remembered himself.” 

Todd sighed at Frau Schiller’s words, but he let Mueller go with the barest hint of a shove. 

“Keep your employer’s name out of your mouth when you’re in a gossiping mood, Mueller,” he ordered, dismissive. “And apologize to these ladies for speaking so coarsely in their presence.” 

Mueller snatched his hat from the table, milk white. 

“Forgive me, Fen. Frau Schiller. Irina. I spoke out of turn.”

All three of them murmured their acknowledgement before Mueller was permitted to scurry away, looking plenty chastened. It was an awkward silence that remained with them. Irina and Franz had both cleaned their plates. 

“Well,” Frau Schiller declared after a beat, “I think we could all do with a nip of the cooking sherry, wouldn’t you say?”

Fen sighed her relief. “Make mine a double, Frau Schiller,” she requested politely, “And for Todd as well.” 

“No, we shouldn’t—” Todd objected. “We’ll surely still be needed—” 

Frau Schiller plunked a teacup in front of Todd containing a healthy slosh of the fortified wine. 

“Drink your sherry, dear.” 

None could disobey Frau Schiller when she was of a set mind, and so it was with some relief that they all partook of a good sip of strong spirits. Fen half-thought it might have been Franz’s first, to see the youth’s cheeks go so ruddy. Even Todd’s shoulders dropped a bit as he drained his cup, though the set of his mouth remained perturbed. 

It was only Fen and Frau Schiller remaining at the table when Todd spoke again.

“Mueller,” he sighed. “Nineteen and he thinks he knows the world. ...he was ill, that’s all.”

Fen frowned, confused. “What?” 

“Herr Waugh. When he was a younger man, he was ill,” Todd repeated, dragging his hands through his hair, his elbows on the table. “At the estate of my previous employer, there was a fever that went around. It took an elderly butler, and one of the scullery maids. Even the master of the house was not immune. Herr Waugh was there. They were—he was his—“

“His companion,” Fen guessed. It was another of the unspoken secrets of the house, Herr Waugh’s frequent late night walks, and visits with “dear friends”. Lady Margo still spoke fondly of a Russian duke who had favored Herr Waugh with his attentions in the first months of their tour. Still, she would never put her employer’s nature in such bald terms as Mueller had dared.

Todd nodded. “Herr Waugh insisted on caring for him. He might have left—Lord knows the baron had turned cold enough to him at that point—but he stayed, and it was him that got the worse touch of it when he fell ill next.” 

“And you think that’s why—“

Todd shrugged. “I’ve heard it to happen. A high enough fever can wreak all manner of havoc on a body.”

Todd cleared his throat. Discussing his employer’s person so clinically must have pushed too close to the boundaries of propriety for his liking.

“Point is, I won’t hear another word from Mueller, nor anyone else,” he said eventually. “Not when Herr Waugh suffers from the cost of Christian charity that was hardly returned to him.”

“Good man, Todd.” 

Frau Schiller punctuated her conviction by setting another piece of carrot cake at Todd’s place. Perhaps it was the sherry, but something about Frau Schiller’s endless supply of cake struck Fen as unbearably funny. She giggled, maybe for the first time in the long five days since Herr Waugh’s bad news, and she slapped her hand over her own mouth in shock. She thought Todd might be angry, as though she were laughing at his tale, but then he grinned, leaning back in his chair and running his hands through his hair again. 

“It’s been a week, hasn’t it?” he said, and they both laughed despite themselves. 

“You see?” Frau Schiller said, as though she had planned it all along. “All will be well, dears. We’ll just be patient for a bit longer.” 

Fen thought, as they all worked on their second slice of cake, that perhaps Frau Schiller was right.

* * *

After that night, Fen approached her lady’s room with a new sense of caution, praying each time she knocked on the door that she might be interrupting a moment of marital intimacy. It was foolish optimism perhaps, as Herr Waugh still chose to sleep in his dressing room for a week, but Fen was determined to match Frau Schiller in her hopeful attitude. The tensions among the servants had lessened after Todd’s ‘discipline’ of the groom Mueller, but a home could not be truly happy if the masters of it were upset with each other. Herr Waugh spent most of his time at court, the upcoming events of the season keeping him busy enough to skip his usual afternoon walk with Lady Margo without much excuse. Lady Margo, in turn, kept her schedule of calls and appointments full enough that she was only obliged to take dinner at home. Still, Frau Schiller had recommended patience, and so Fen did her best to pursue that virtue.

One evening, Fen spent an unreasonable amount of time fixing Lady Margo’s hair for a social function at her cousin’s house. The lady had wanted it piled atop her head in ringlets, a newer style that smoothed out her normally curled bangs. It had taken Fen three tries, and she had seen her employer’s patience wane with each attempt. 

“I’m so sorry, my lady–”

“It’s alright, Fen. All’s well that ends and that.” The lady smoothed her petticoats, which she had been sat in for nearly a half-hour due to Fen’s mishaps.

“The directions had been so vague, my lady, and I practiced this morning but our hair is different in texture and I think I just needed another go of it–”

“Fen?”

Fen started, nearly dropping her comb. It hadn’t been Margo to speak her name. Herr Waugh stood in the doorway, still dressed in his overcoat, rain on his shoulders. There had been an unseasonal thaw that day. 

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Fen. But my lady,” he addressed Margo. Herr Waugh had never spoken to his wife so formally in Fen’s presence. “Might we talk? Alone?”

With the barest hint of a nod from Margo, Fen practically scurried from the room, eager to leave the pair alone. She needed to go downstairs to fetch Lady Margo’s gown at any rate. She took her time back up the stairs, sending up a little prayer with every step that tonight would be the night, and Herr and Lady Waugh would finally be reunited. When she returned, the door was ajar, and she stopped at the sound of their voices. 

“...but is this about my desires, Eliot?” 

“My darling, I don’t understand what you mean.” 

At least Herr Waugh’s unsettling formality had been dispensed with, Fen thought as she listened. She took a cautious step forward, and was able to see into the room as Lady Margo next spoke.

“I know the purpose of our union,” she said. “And if without the protection of children, you would be happier unattached, without the expenses of a household—”

“Dear god, Margo, no. Never even speak such a thing.” Herr Waugh knelt before his wife. At this angle Fen could see both man and wife in profile, and Herr Waugh’s expression was writ with pure devastation. “I beg you, banish it from your mind forever. Our marriage— my darling, how can you not see— it is born of my unadulterated selfishness. I was living in darkness, utter darkness, and then—” 

Herr Waugh’s voice was rough. 

“Your beauty, your _anger_ , your truth, they cut straight to my heart.” He pulled Lady Margo’s wrist to his lips, kissing her pulse. “I thought my life would be loveless, yet you permit me to call you _wife_. How can I endure this burden, of knowing you will spend your life as my protector, my savior, when the one thing you ask in return I can’t— I cannot—” 

Herr Waugh could not speak further, and Fen saw the glint of tears on his cheeks as he laid his head in Lady Margo’s lap, his hair a spill of ink against the white of her petticoats. His shoulders shook as he wrapped his arms around his wife’s waist, and she stroked her fingers through his dark hair. The lady’s expression was one of pain, but also pure tenderness, and Fen thought she had never known two people who loved each other so deeply. Remembering herself, she turned her gaze away from the private moment. It was still too quiet for her to walk away without the lord and lady realizing she was listening in, so Fen waited.

“You love my truths, darling?” she heard Lady Margo murmur after few moments. “Then hear this: I would live a thousand years childless before I gave you up.” 

A soft gasp. “— Margo, surely you don’t mean that.” 

“ _Surely_ ,” Lady Margo repeated, “I will decide for myself what I do and don’t mean.”

Herr Waugh laughed, low and breathless. “Of course. Forgive me, darling.” 

“Of course, my dear.” 

Fen dared one last glimpse in the crack of the door. Herr Waugh had Lady Margo’s hand pressed to his cheek. 

“My wife. My dearest friend. ...forgive me?” Herr Waugh’s entreaty contained multitudes. His words were a skim of ice across a pond, ready to shatter at any moment. Lady Margo tipped his chin up with her slim hand, and placed a tender kiss upon his lips. 

“Eliot.” Lady Margo stroked an errant curl back from Herr Waugh’s brow. “My husband. Stay by my side, and there is nothing to forgive.” 

Herr Waugh smiled, small and shy, and Fen thought it was perhaps the handsomest she had ever seen him. 

“Always, darling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We shall return soon with the next full installment. Both of us work and go to school full time now, but we are committed to this story more than you can even imagine. 
> 
> We are queliotpasta and summersteve on tumblr if you ever want to reach out there! Thank you as always for your comments and feedback!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Act 3: The Travels of their Minds and Bodies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Act 3! Thank you for all your amazing feedback, as always. This journey will be bumpy, so hang on tight. 
> 
> Warnings for: symptoms of depression and discussions of depression

_“So this Clara, I thought, this one is yours— is yours, and you cannot even go to her, not even press her hand. Was there anyone in the entire hall who could imagine my state of mind? Hardly you. I was dead and blissful at the same time, to the point of collapse… I’m really sick, really very sick; one blow and I’ll fall over.”_

—Robert Schumann in a letter to his beloved Clara Wieck after seeing her after her performance. On this night, he saw Clara and said “Good Evening,” but was unable to say anything else due to her wicked father’s presence.

_Vienna, Austria  
February, 1837_

Margo had married a complete and utter coward.

A cad, a commoner, a philandering musician that would make off with her family’s fortune— those had been the words her friends— and many who were less than friends— in society had used to describe Eliot after the announcement of their engagement:

“No doubt he is interesting, but how crude, like marrying the footman–”

“-- I am all for progress, to be certain, but why would such a young lady of family wish to ruin herself so?”

“Lady Hanson better keep a tight hold on her coin purse, you know what they say about artists– hush, she approaches–”

But he was never to be called a coward. No, bravery was the one quality those in her circles allowed of Eliot. Eliot _was_ such a handsome man, and indeed it _was_ such a delicious scandal– and above all, it was _romantic,_ like the plot of a novel one might try to sneak past their governess .

“Lady Marjorie! You must hear what I have heard about Lady Hanson’s scandal–”

“Oh but he’s _handsome._ No wonder Margo couldn’t resist– even if she is absolutely ruined now–”

“It is indeed like something out of Austen, only this time the most dashing man wins the prize!”

Margo knew it was Eliot’s sweeping bravery, his refusal to give up his engagement to her, that was what won over the public in the end. Society had snubbed them for a few months, to be sure, but they were too… _attractive._ Too pretty and too interesting to be kept away from evenings of culture and decadence. They would enter parties and part the sea like Moses, he with a shining black cane encrusted with jewels at the handle and her in the most striking and current fashions from France. Then came the inevitable moment when Eliot sat at a piano, and he drowned them all in his art, his passion, his _music_. There was no thought left for scandal. Margo was the envy of society, for she alone could claim a lifelong place in the warm circle of Eliot Waugh’s tender, private devotion.

That bitter winter morning, Margo laid in bed as Eliot left their house— the home they had made together— her heart cold with anger at the same man that had made her feel so alive. 

He bid Quentin goodbye outside of the house. A rather chilly affair, she had thought while watching from her bedroom window and peeking through the gap in her lace curtains. Quentin smoked three cigarettes before Eliot even decided to acknowledge him. Even then it was a stiff goodbye, their postures stilted and formal, without any of the affection between them that Margo had been accustomed to seeing. She hadn’t expected Eliot to kiss Quentin on their front step, of course not, but to act as if their year together had been nothing… 

Margo would have sent a brick through the window of his carriage had she been in Quentin’s place. 

She sighed. The smooth sheets that had been part of her wedding trousseau twisted uncomfortably around her legs. Her chemise pulled across her chest, the thick embroidery digging into her skin. Still, she dreaded rising and facing the day. She pressed her face into the pillows cocooning her head, hiding herself from the sunlight that poured in through the window. If she closed her eyes she could almost let the softness of the linens lull her away from the raw wound of her broken heart. 

She made a frustrated noise, rising and untangling herself. She rang the bell to call for Fen, and wrapped her dressing gown around her before flopping back into the pillows.

Irina had already been in to tend to the fire, her footsteps softer than a mouse in the early dawn, and it roared joyfully behind the grate now, flickering and throwing sparks as if there were anything at all in the world worth celebrating. Margo clicked her tongue, her mouth feeling stale, and thought of the calls she had to make today– the first for morning tea at her cousin’s mansion. She grimaced, staring up at the ceiling, and wondering what on earth she was going to say about Eliot’s sudden departure. 

A soft knock. 

“Come in, Fen.”

“Good morning, my lady,” Fen said as she entered, carrying one of Margo’s freshly pressed floral day dresses over one arm and balancing Margo’s breakfast tray on the other hand. “I took the liberty of pressing the sage chintz for today, I do hope that was alright. A bit light for February, but the sun shines bright and with an extra petticoat perhaps we can move spring along, yes, my lady?”

Margo closed her eyes, Fen’s cheerful monologue washing over her. Her lady’s maid was as sweet as the finest Vienna confection, and loyal to Margo since her girlhood. She had witnessed everything. From the premature death of Margo’s mother while she was still in ringlets, to the ongoing war of Margo’s adolescence, fighting with her father on everything from the company she kept to the color of her gowns. Fen had been there while Margo and Eliot forged their bond, and during the… _trying_ moments of their early marriage.

Margo’s temper was infamous, aimed like a bayonet at her father and her siblings and even Eliot– anyone who had sought to stand in her way. But not Fen. Especially not now, when Fen’s babbling was a direct result of Eliot’s abandonment, and her attempt to introduce some cheer into such an obviously dire situation. 

“-- I think Lady Sophia will be absolutely green with envy, pardon the pun, when she sees you dressed so fine for just a Tuesday afternoon–” Satisfied with her arrangement, she set the heavy breakfast tray over Margo’s legs. “If you don’t mind me saying so, my lady.”

Margo sat up. Fen stopped her rustling, giving her a hopeful gaze. 

“Yes, Fen. I think the sage chintz is a lovely idea.”

Fen smiled, relieved. She continued her fussing and chatting, straightening Margo’s bed linens until Margo felt obliged to rise and dress, still chewing a piece of bread from her tray. She washed her face, and picked out a pale pink pair of stockings with matching ribbons. Once situated in her underclothes, Fen helped her into her stays. 

“Has Herr Coldwater gone out?” Margo asked once she could get a word in edgewise. “I couldn’t remember if he had business to attend to today.”

Fen pulled the cords just shy of too tight. Margo winced.

“Sorry, my lady– oh, and Herr Coldwater hasn’t gone out. Not to my knowledge.” Another pull, this one gentler. “I believe he said he would be doing some work in his chambers today. He asked Franz to not be disturbed. There, all finished.” She tied off the cords with quick practiced fingers.

Margo pursed her lips as she slipped a carved wooden busk behind the stays. They held her waist in tight, and kept her spine straight. In a way it was a relief, like donning armor. All her tender belly protected, or so it felt. “I see.”

“I should think Herr Coldwater would be terribly busy, what with his music becoming so popular.” Fen lifted the first petticoat over Margo’s head, and then the second, tying both at her waist, followed by the thickly ruched bustle. 

“Yes, so very busy,” Margo mused. 

“Even with Herr Waugh gone, I’m sure he’ll be asked to attend–”

Fen stopped, her hands frozen as she filled the sleeves of Margo’s frock with cotton padding. Margo looked down, adjusting her stays under the petticoats. 

“My lady– I’m sorry– I didn’t mean to–”

Margo swallowed, straightening and smiling. 

“We shall have to say his name sometime, Fen. Better to get it over and done with now, rather than later.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“We weren’t exactly quiet last night, what with my shouting and carrying on. It wouldn’t be your fault if you overheard our arguments.”

“I beg your pardon, my lady, but I don’t think it was only you doing the shouting.”

Darkness briefly befell Margo as the sage chintz gown was lifted over her head, and she worked her arms into the nearly comically puffed sleeves, with Fen’s gentle assistance.

“Yes, well, there’s that. And I will be content when this ridiculous fashion has run its course, wouldn’t you agree?” Margo attempted to joke when her head finally emerged through the generous neckline and she could feed her arms through the comically voluminous sleeves. “I don’t know why England’s Queen Adelaide would insist on such a waste of good fabric.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea either, my lady, but I daresay it is good for warmth on days such as these.” Fen fastened the hook and eye closures at the back of the bodice, and afixed the detached laced collar to the neckline and sleeves. “Like insulation in the stables.”

They shared a laugh, and Margo was glad that Fen felt once again at ease with her. It was bound to be an uncomfortable time in the house, and she needed an assured ally in her lady’s maid.

“Ridiculous or not, my lady, you do look _very_ well.”

Margo stepped in front of the mirror, smoothing her gown over the petticoats as Fen laced her shoes at her feet. Fen had curled her hair and it tumbled in ringlets from a knot high on the back of her head. She had to agree, the light green gown with its floral print was more suited for spring, but they could use as much cheeriness as was possible now, and nothing dampened the fire of her anger like fashion in luxurious fabrics. 

When she exited her room, her bonnet swinging from her hand, Quentin’s door was tightly shut and no light escaped from underneath. She bit the inside of her cheek. It was Wednesday– Quentin had three students in the late afternoon on Wednesdays, or so she thought. Perhaps they had canceled. 

No matter. She would give him his privacy. 

Once wrapped in her cloak, stomach still growling from the lack of a proper breakfast, Franz readied the carriage and they made the short journey to her cousin’s lavish mansion a few blocks away. It was closer to the palace, a sign of Lord Rolf Hanson’s increasing favor with the emperor’s advisors. Though she would rather her day be free for her to spend under the covers in her bedroom, contemplating all the ways she could murder her dear husband, a visit with her cousin wouldn’t be as arduous as another more esteemed call. 

“Margo, my dear,” Sophia said as she was shown through the front door, taking Margo’s hand warmly. “You are most welcome today.”

As she was shown to the drawing room, Margo detected a strange glint in Sophia’s eye, a sort of mean glee that she and Eliot indulged in more than was entirely Christian. Her cousin was bursting, and got right to the meat of it before Margo bit into her first tea biscuit. 

“So, cousin, I’ve heard that Eliot is off on another whirlwind tour of Europe.”

Margo squeezed out a smile. The Vienna rumor mill was remarkably efficient. “Indeed. He only just departed this morning.”

Sophia raised her eyebrows, feigning disbelief. “Really? I had heard that he left earlier in the week, barely giving the Emperor a day’s notice. Dangerous times to be so flippant, I would think.”

Margo shook her head after a dainty sip of tea. “No, I’m afraid you are mistaken. He gave the emperor ample time to make arrangements.” _He didn’t give nearly the same courtesy to his wife or his lover,_ Margo added in the privacy of her own mind. 

Sophia pursed her lips, making a little ‘hmph!’ through pursed lips before reaching for a slice of teacake. Her cousin was a dreadful gossip, always had been. Whether in their girlhoods in the nursery or their years as debutantes navigating society, she had always leant her ear towards any morsel of interesting story no matter how outlandish. Then Sophia had made her match with Rolf at the fashionable age of twenty-one, marrying the distant cousin that would inherit her father’s estate and ensuring her position in the Viennese aristocracy and its endless speculating about other people's private lives. Three children later, domestic life had done little to curtail her thirst.

“What a lovely turn of events for you, anyway.” Sophia continued, sipping her tea. “You must be be glad to have the house to yourself. Sharing your home with two musicians– it must be terribly noisy.”

Margo tapped her fingers on the table. It was times like these that she wished she had learned to better hide her expressions. When she looked up Sophia smiled, like a cat about to catch a mouse. 

“Oh, but you _do_ miss him, don’t you?” her cousin taunted.

Margo sipped the weakest tea she had ever drank in her life. 

“I could hardly miss someone that has yet to be gone a full day.”

Sophia tilted her head back and laughed, her rather limp side curls bouncing. 

“You needn’t lie to me, I can see how saddened you are by this. And for what, for a silly _man?”_

Margo didn’t reply, choosing instead to let her cousin to laugh herself into silence. 

“There’s no shame, my dear, you’ll get over it soon enough,” Sophia said, her laughter settling into a callous smile. “Rolf is gone from this house most days of the year. And when we move out to the country for the summer, he will scarcely see fit to be there as well.”

“Eliot is not Rolf,” Margo said, somewhat unkindly. “We were not a marriage of convenience.”

Sophie paused, the cup halfway to her mouth. 

“The bite of scandalous romance softens with time. You are not a blushing maiden anymore, Margo,” she said, a new haughty bite to her tone. “Did you expect his affections for you to last forever?”

Margo sniffed, setting her teacup down with a loud clunk.

 _We will come home to each other–_ Eliot’s words echoed in her mind. She felt the clasp of his hand in hers as he asked her to be his, for them to belong to each other for life. She had shed her gloves before that, and had been surprised that his hands were so cool and smooth after the exertion of playing piano. 

_It is not the hands that are exerted,_ Eliot had answered when she asked, _But the heart._

Sophie reached over, covering Margo’s hand now. Her grip was clammy through her delicate lace gloves. 

“Fear not,” she said, her haughty anger replaced with condescending pity. “Eliot will get his passions out of his system. When he returns, he’ll be ready to resume the business of child-making. With you.”

Margo pulled her hand out from under her cousins, masking her frown with another bite of a biscuit. 

Later— once she was blessedly able to return home— Fen followed with her usual good humor as Margo breezed into her room, plopping down at the vanity table and pulling pins from her own hair. They fell, one by one, to the glass plate for that purpose, plinking like rain against a window.

“She has no right– absolutely _no right–_ Eliot is the reason Rolf has the position he has at court. How _dare_ she speak of him in such a manner.”

Fen swatted her hands away to begin taking her hair down herself. “Of course, my lady.”

“Rolf was a _nobody,_ a social climbing, sniveling little– Eliot made him _interesting,_ artistic even, such a feat he could not imagine accomplishing by his own merits–”

“Indeed, my lady.”

“And now I have to report back there tomorrow for luncheon with the Duchess– as if I can even look my cousin in the eye after how she spoke to me, _me,_ who comforted her after she lost her mother, who dried her tears the evening of her coming out party–”

“Would you like to change for dinner, my lady?”

Margo sighed, the heat of her anger cooling somewhat as her hair finally tumbled from it’s elaborate day style.

“No. I think not. Just help me fix this mess–” she gestured to her nest of hair, “Into something halfway decent. No sense dressing up for Quentin in his ragged suit.”

Fen smoothed her wayward curls as much as she could, tempting Margo to double her pay just for the trouble she went through to keep her sane, and Margo washed her hands and face before leaving her room for the dining room. She expected to see Quentin already seated at the table, fiddling with some book or piece of sheet music he usually fussed with before dinner began, but on their polished mahogany table was a place set for one.

She stared at the solitary setting. 

“Franz?” The footman pulled out her chair. “Is Herr Coldwater not coming to dinner tonight?”

He frowned, setting a bowl of soup on the silver charger at her place.

“I’m afraid not, my lady. Would you prefer a tray? I can have one brought to your rooms if you would like.”

Margo shook her head. “No, no– this is lovely. Do you have any idea where he is?”

“I’m afraid not, my lady. Would you like me to check?”

She waved a hand, smiling tightly. “No, no, I’m sure he’s working.” 

So she ate crystal clear consume and a delicious meal of tender beef with creamy potatoes, all seasoned to perfection by Frau Schiller, but sitting alone in the dining room meant for her and her husband made it taste of nothing. Normally, they would be neck deep in the day’s gossip, Eliot filling her in on the trials of court and she the titters of the ladies who kept fashionable parlors. Even Quentin would join in, rambling on about some political intrigue he heard at the many cafes he frequented or the exploits of his students, his hands gesturing wildly in the dusky evening light. 

The next day was much the same. She took breakfast in her room, and Sophia received her once more for luncheon with the Duchess of some obscure fiefdom in Germany, and thankfully kept her comments about Eliot to herself. Once relieved of her social duties, Margo spent the afternoon reading in the parlor, assuming that Quentin had left for his lessons, but when she dressed for dinner and adjourned to the dining room she found herself alone once more.

“Is Herr Coldwater not in, Todd?” She asked as Franz decanted a dark green bottle of claret. 

Franz paused, his hand still on the corkscrew. “I believe he is, my lady.”

“Is he working?” She knew the answer; she hadn’t heard the piano since Eliot’s departure. “Will you bring him a tray?”

Franz pulled the corkscrew from the bottle with a pop. “I offered, my lady, but Herr Coldwater declined.”

Margo clicked her tongue. “I see. But you have seen him? Tended to him?”

Franz looked at his shoes, looking like a hound with its tail between its legs.. 

“I’ve… tried, my lady. He won’t let me in his room. I wish to do my duty, but–”

“Never fear, Franz,” she reassured, waving a hand. “This is not your doing. We both shall give him some time. I’m sure he will come down to breakfast tomorrow.”

She arrived at breakfast early the next morning, hoping that when she entered Quentin would be sitting at the table buttering his bread. However, only one place was set, and Quentin’s seat was empty. 

“Oh, that is _it_ ,” she said sharply. Franz nearly dropped the coffee pot. “Fen! Meet me upstairs!” she called as she turned on her heel. The full boom of her voice echoed through the house as she made quick steps up to the second floor. 

Nary a strip of light shone from under Quentin’s door, it was shut up so tight. She raised a hand, rapping her knuckles three times against the wood. 

“Quentin?” she started. “Are you alright? Would you let me in please?”

No response. Inside, there was a rustle, as if Quentin turned over in bed. She wet her lips, steeling herself.

“I only want to help,” she said, a bit louder. “I promise that it isn’t as bad as it seems now.”

Still nothing.

She swallowed, bracing herself as she turned the knob and entered. 

The room was completely dark, and smelled of stale sweat and god only knew what else. Clothes littered the floor and furniture– a jacket hung over the desk chair and a shirt and waistcoat sat in a heap on the floor, as if Quentin had more than once tried and abandoned getting dressed. Margo stepped in further, and something crunched under her shoe. It was a broken glass, one of the simpler tumblers that would have sat in a pair next to the bottle of spirits on Quentin’s desk. The amber stain on the carpet reeked of whiskey.

She turned toward the bed. Quentin was a sad lump under the sheets, the blankets drawn up nearly over his head and his eyes squeezed shut. 

Margo stooped down, careful to keep her skirts away from the broken glass. 

“Quentin,” she said softly. “Are you truly asleep?”

Quentin inhaled shakily, and his eyes opened. 

“No, my lady.”

Margo nodded once, swallowing back any emotions she might be feeling and rising to her feet. This was good. Well, not good, but it was something she could handle. She needed a project to occupy her time. 

She strode over to the windows, grasping the thickly embroidered curtains and sweeping them aside. Quentin gasped as the room filled with blinding winter sunlight. After doing the same to the other window, she returned to the bed, sitting beside him. He sat up and squinted at the light flooding in through the windows, as if he had never seen something so bright. 

He flinched when she pressed her wrist to his forehead. 

“No fever, so I’m afraid it is time to rejoin the world,” Margo said briskly, lowering her hand. “However cruel that may seem.”

Quentin lowered his head to rest on his bent knees, hands fisted in his bedclothes as though he might be able to curl inside them until he simply vanished. He seemed apathetic to his state of undress in Margo’s presence, which warned her more than anything else that Quentin was not in his proper frame of mind. 

“What a burden I must be to you, my lady,” he whispered. He did not meet her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s Margo, Q. And I’ll have none of that.” Margo straightened the collar of his nightshirt where it had skewed to one shoulder. “Self-pity is a pointless exercise, wouldn’t you agree?

He exhaled shakily, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. 

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

“Fen, come in please,” Margo said, standing and beckoning to her lady’s maid who waited outside the door. “This room needs to be aired out and cleaned, top to bottom. Have the maids assist you.”

This room had been Eliot’s as well as Quentin’s this last year, and his presence lingered in the very air they breathed. One of his silver fountain pens sat on Quentin’s desk, and the sheets were Eliot’s favorite set dyed blue to match the walls. Even Quentin’s clothes were gifts from him. It was not only merely physical– his laugh, his music, his very being felt heavy in the air. Whether Fen and the maids could eradicate the feeling with hot water and feather dusters remained to be seen. 

Fen nodded, kindly accepting the challenge. “Yes, my lady.”

Quentin blinked, shaking his head. “This is unnecessary. It’s my own mess–”

She laid a hand on his shoulder, hoping to lessen the stern quality of her tone. “I’ll decide what is necessary, Q. And I’ve decided to help you, whether you wish for it or not.”

After a pause, Quentin nodded, his death grip loosening on the bedclothes. 

Fen left to fetch the maids, and Margo called after her: “And have Franz draw a bath for Herr Coldwater, with some of my scented oils I think— jasmine or lavender, Quentin?”

He laughed in disbelief, shaking his head. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know the difference.”

“Hm, better make it lavender then.” 

As Fen and the maids bustled in and out of the room, Margo considered the rest of her day. She had planned on showing her face on a few calls– she couldn’t hide out in Sophia’s parlor forever. 

However… she considered Quentin’s deep frown, the way he his hair hung limp in front of his face. 

“And Fen?” she called one last time. 

Fen returned, out of breath. 

“Yes, my lady?”

“Send a letter with my regards to my appointments today,” she said. “Herr Coldwater will have his bath, and then we shall have breakfast and a good walk in the sunshine.”

“Very good, my lady.”

Margo left the room as Franz helped Quentin out of bed and into the attached bathroom, conceding that some acts were still too intimate for her to witness. She paced at the foot of the stairs, worrying as Quentin stayed in the bath a bit too long for her comfort. Before she could indulge in any real worry he emerged from his bedroom, hair damp and dressed in a fresh suit of clothes. She still worried at the slump to his frame, but the warm water had brought some color back to his cheeks, at least.

They sat together at the breakfast table, and Margo ordered new eggs for the two of them. Quentin’s eyelids hung low, as if at any moment he could succumb to sleep. 

“I believe Frau Schiller is trying a new pumpernickel recipe.” Margo passed the dish to Quentin, waving the freshly baked brown bread under his nose. “We can try it together and let her know of her success.”

Quentin swallowed, looking at the plate of bread as if the slices might jump up and bite him. He took a piece, setting it on his plate carefully. Margo pursed her lips, taking a piece for herself and reaching for the butter. 

“Delicious, of course,” she said after taking a bite. “She could be a prize winning baker for His Majesty at the palace, and yet we are lucky enough to have Frau Schiller in our service.”

Quentin merely nodded. His hands rested in his lap, and he nervously pulled at his fingers. Franz returned with their eggs. Quentin grasped his knife and sheared off the top of his as Margo had seen him do every morning, but made no moves to eat it.

“Is your egg overdone?” she asked. 

“No, it’s fine–”

“Franz can get you a new one, it’s no trouble–”

“Margo.”

“Yes?”

“Please– don’t dote on me,” he said. Her heart stuttered in her chest. Quentin’s face was an open book of emotion. “I’m so very– I’m deeply ashamed of how I have acted.”

Margo pursed her lips. “I accept your apology, but I must insist that there is nothing for you to be sorry about. It’s not as if you have done anything to offend me.”

He shook his head, looking down at his lap. “This is all so terribly inconvenient for you– my being here now.”

“Why would you even think such a thing?” Margo said, lifting her chin slightly. “I was laboring under the impression that we were friends now, regardless of my husband’s mediation.”

“Why you would want a friend like me is beyond–” Quentin stopped. His frown trembled. “I suppose Eliot told you of the weakness of my mind.”

Margo chewed her bread, swallowing slowly. “I’m sorry?”

“Please don’t play pretend. I just spent three days in bed, Margo. I’m not ignorant of how this looks.”

Margo lowered her fork and knife. Quentin finally looked at her, his face twisted with heartbreak.

“I assure you I’m not playing pretend,” she started. “He never said any such thing to me, but I did notice that you kept to your rooms more often than not in the first weeks after our arrival here last summer. When Herr Bauer agreed to only publish your music in part it affected you deeply, despite how you tried to hide it, and I noticed that when you receive a letter, it can dampen your spirits more than I have seen in anyone else. Any musings on your… affliction have been entirely my own.”

Quentin stared at her as she made her speech, as if the words were striking the impenetrable armor of his insecurity. 

“You are observant.” Quentin lowered his gaze again. “Much more observant that I previously thought.”

“Yes, well, El–” Quentin’s gaze lifted, as if he were bracing for a blow. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t said his name, but each time seemed to chip away at Quentin as if he were a limestone sculpture left in the rain. “Others have thought the same, but I am always watching, Q. Not to sound eerie, of course.”

She smiled at her own little joke, hoping to alleviate some of the tension in the room. Quentin managed a small one, just a lift to the corner of his mouth. 

“This is all rather like a gothic novel, I suppose.”

“In drama, yes.” Margo stood, placing her napkin on the table. “Though I am glad that we live in our modern townhouse rather than a castle.”

Quentin’s fork still dangled in mid-air. His disposition was so soft, as if with a single shove he would fall over and dissolve into the carpet. She ground her teeth. She wanted him irate. She wanted him to fight, to yell, to curse Eliot to hell for all he cared. She would be glad to join him. But this– this darkness of the mind that settled over him like a heavy brocade curtain– she found herself unfamiliar. 

She rested a hand on his shoulder, even the gentle touch causing him to flinch.

“Come, perhaps lunch will be more successful. I think some fresh air will do some good for you.”

The sun was high by the time Margo found her cloak and Quentin his overcoat and scarf. Despite the bright light bouncing off of the snow it was still frigid, their breath fogging up the air. Margo didn’t move to take his arm, nor did he offer it. Quentin retreated into himself once more as they walked, wrapping his coat tight over his chest and staying mostly silent. Margo didn’t mind. 

Outside, with its brisk air and snow swirling around in the wind, it was easier to forget Eliot’s departure. He could be working at court for the day or running an errand to his publisher. It was as if Eliot could bound up to them at any minute, all smiles and excitement over some new prospect or performance. They took walks like these almost everyday, when their combined schedules allowed it. It had started as their campaign to be visible in the community, to not let scandal force them out of the place they called home. 

With a pang Margo realized it had been many years since she had been in Vienna without Eliot Waugh. 

When they returned, Margo ordered tea for them in the parlor and they hung their outerwear to dry in the foyer. Tea was brought in and Margo settled on the sofa with the book she had started the evening before. It was new, just arrived from London at the beginning of the week. She and Eliot were supposed to have read it together, to heighten the suspense, though her expectations on that front would have to be adjusted now. 

Quentin sat at the writing desk, his pen hovering over a blank sheet of paper. A drop of ink fell from the tip, staining the white sheet. 

“Who are you writing to?” Margo asked carefully, turning a page. 

Quentin pursed his lips. “My mother. I’m afraid I’ve neglected our correspondence. I haven’t had much time for writing since the concerto performance.”

“It’s not as if you haven’t been busy.”

Quentin laughed softly. “She will not see it the same way, I’m afraid.”

Margo paused. Eliot had told her of Quentin’s family. How his mother was cold to him, withholding money and affection unless Quentin did as she asked. Even now, Quentin sat here in blithe disobedience to his family’s wishes. 

“I’ve only written her once since coming to Vienna,” Quentin continued, and Margo closed her book to give her attention. “She… doesn’t approve of my being here, of course.”

“Our parents rarely approve of us,” Margo said. “But you have met only success since arriving here. What protests could your mother have now to you being a musician?”

Quentin shrugged, setting his pen down with an air of finality to it. There would be no letter today. 

“There is always a new reason. I have found success now, but will I be able to sustain it? Have I invested my earnings? Am I a burden to the Waugh family?”

“What an exhausting way to live a life.”

Quentin leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. “It is as it is.”

“It would seem that this is a temperamental subject,” Margo said. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought it up at all?”

Quentin shook his head. “I don’t wish to be thought of as fragile, Margo.”

“But you are, Quentin.”

Quentin looked up, shocked at her frankness, the beginnings of hurt crossing his face. 

She shook her head, continuing. “I only mean– you are a man of great feeling and emotion, and to wear those emotions so proudly, to truly _feel_ them, requires fragility and strength in equal measure. The strength to leave oneself so vulnerable is not a trait I share.”

Quentin nodded, placated but seemingly unconvinced. 

“It’s not as though it has done me any good. I can’t compose like this, I can’t–”

“Have you tried?”

Quentin blinked. “I’m sorry?”

Margo cleared her throat. “Have you tried to compose yet?”

She knew the answer. Quentin composed at the piano, his music needing the audible sounds of the instrument to take shape. In this way he was unlike Eliot, who could pen a sonata from their marriage bed by the light of a single flickering candle. She had not heard the piano since Eliot’s departure, or perhaps not even in the days before, as if Quentin’s well of music dried up at the first signs of strife. 

“I haven’t,” he said. “I can’t, it’s as if he’s taken my music with him.”

Margo shook her head. “You cannot know that unless you try. If anything– do it out of spite for Eliot being so foolish.”

Quentin’s eyes shone, and Margo thought for a moment that she had gone too far. Quentin’s anger at Eliot had cooled in favor of his deep, swollen sadness. Anger didn’t keep you in bed for days at a time, it kept you awake, made you jittery and snappish. Margo would know. 

Instead, Quentin sat up taller, rolling his shoulders back before standing and walking to the piano. He didn’t sit, instead brushing his fingers over the keys, barely depressing them. Inside the instrument, the hammers sprang to action but didn’t strike the strings, thumping uselessly back into place when he removed his hand. 

“I– um–”

“I could play us something.” Margo stood suddenly, pulling the bench out with a scrape against the wood floor and sitting at the piano. Quentin stood frozen, his mouth hanging open. “If you like,” Margo added, shrugging. “Who knows, it might give you some inspiration.”

Quentin closed his mouth, offering and short bow and backing away to sit on the sofa. Margo’s hands searched over the keys for something to play, nervous now even though she had made the offer. She couldn’t play something of Eliot’s– that would destroy the man. She didn’t know any of Quentin’s compositions, so she settled with something completely different, something to breathe new life into an instrument so clogged with memories. Her hands searched and found– it was an old melody, accompanied by a sparse rumbling [ arpeggio ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8lvNjO3TQAA).

She leaned her torso forward as the first theme began, letting the full weight of her arm round off the tone of the sparse melody. It was tricky– the melody was minor, and then major. It was a man braced on a bridge, ready to jump into the murky depths, but just then the sun rose, drawing his gaze to the horizon. A beginning of heartbreak, and an ending of true happiness. 

She could feel Quentin’s eyes on the back of her head as she played. Was he surprised? Had Eliot told him that she could play? She had assumed he had, had assumed Eliot had been an open book with his lover as he had been with her, but after his exit– she wasn’t so sure anymore. 

A soft chord finished the piece, and she wrinkled her nose at her poor voicing. The sofa creaked behind her. 

“Margo…”

She turned, smiling. Quentin had something close to light in his eyes for the first time that day. Music healing the soul, and all that.

“Are you shocked?” she asked.

He laughed in disbelief. “Astonished. Not that you can play– it’s only that–”

“I never have in your presence,” Margo finished for him. “I would scarcely be permitted, what with you and Eliot always hogging both our instruments.”

“But,” he continued to stutter. “All of these months–” 

“Eliot is not the only former child prodigy in this house,” she said, absentmindedly playing a sweeping scale. Her fingers were tense and tripped over each other; it had been a long time. “The only difference is that when I became a young woman many lost their interest in listening to me. My father abandoned the project once I became less profitable.”

“What do you mean?”

She sighed, stilling her hands. “It is all well and good to watch a pretty little girl in ringlets play Mozart sonatas at lightning fast speeds, but another thing entirely for that girl to grow into a woman who would play for more than the enjoyment of her husband.”

Something crossed his face, as if this were a familiar story. 

“Julia… Wicker, that is– her father keeps her in braids and pigtails, even though we are the same age.” He leaned his elbow on the arm of the sofa, gazing out the window. 

“How very undignified,” Margo said. 

Quentin nodded. “It is. I was… well, a point of argument between us, when we were younger and I still sought to win her heart. Foolish of me, really, there was no future for us. But I told her that with me she could seek to be a serious artist, without her father’s control.”

Margo pictured Quentin, pleading with another lover to believe in him and believe in his love. It wasn’t an entirely foreign image. 

“What was it like?”

Quentin’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Eliot mentioned some time ago that you spent some of your childhood living in her house, taking lessons from her father. I also ask because I…” She swallowed, wondering why she chose to unearth so many painful memories all at once this afternoon. “I knew Julia. When we were girls we would play on the same concerts. I tried to befriend her but–” she stopped, drawing her tongue over her teeth, thinking of the right words. “She always seemed so sad. Distant.”

Quentin took a deep breath, and blew it out. 

“It was… loud.” He shook his head. “My family isn’t perfect, God knows they aren’t– but. I had never seen a father yell so much in my life. My own father never raised his voice, not once that I can recall, but, on one occasion, Herr Reynard took his own son and threw him to the ground– all for missing a single note while playing the violin. He shamed him, and the boy cried even as his father continued to yell. After, Julia rose from the dinner table and walked calmly to the piano to play her daily exercises, as if it hadn’t happened at all.”

Margo looked down, brushing her hand over her skirts as if to remove invisible dust. 

“What did you do?” she asked quietly.

“I was a– a boy,” Quentin stuttered. “I did nothing, and I am ashamed of that to this day. But I saw how one can become accustomed to abuse, and close your mind to it. Julia and I–” He smiled, his eyes distant. “We created a world all our own to escape it. I suppose that is why my music tells stories.”

“You shouldn’t feel guilt. You helped her in the only way you could.”

He shook his head. “I helped her more as a child than as a man– I was selfish with her. I sought to save her– for her redemption to give my life meaning. If I truly wanted to help her, as an unselfish friend would, I would have– I would have stood up to her father, found her new management, helped her career– instead I.” He swallowed. “Instead I left her there. Left her at the mercy of Reynard because she couldn’t return my affections. Why kind of man does such a thing?”

Margo shook her head, rising to seat herself next to him on the sofa. “You were only a young man yourself. You had your own career, your own reputation to consider. Reynard is not a man to cross, if I am reading you correctly.” 

“He isn’t a man,” he said, voice hollow. “He’s a monster.”

Despite her own safety her in her parlor, Margo shivered. 

“I won’t sully our afternoon with more talk about him,” he said. “I’m sorry if I have elaborated too much, Margo.”

Margo smiled. Such a man, such a sweet, sweet man. How had Eliot found him? How had he _left_ him?

“I asked the questions.” She settled back against the sofa cushions as much as her stays would allow. “You merely provided the answers.” 

“Nevertheless…” He trailed off, not finishing his thought. He stared into the fireplace, the dancing flames flickering across his eyes. 

Margo thought to ask him what he meant, but a yawn overtook her before she could voice her thoughts. She hadn’t slept through the night for days. Eliot hadn’t slept regularly in their marriage bed for months now, but it was as if her body could feel his absence from the house. 

So they sat in silence, lost in their own thoughts. A maid came by to stoke the fire some time later, filling the room with new warmth. She was so comfortable, and truly tired for the first time since her husband’s departure, so when Margo felt a haze of sleep come over her, she didn’t resist. 

She dreamed the liquid dreams of an afternoon nap, the images fuzzed at the edges and the voices muffled, as if underwater. Figures reached out to her, to hold her, embrace her, but she shied away. Until she saw one man, tall, his head wreathed in a halo of curls, and he took her hand and pulled her close. 

When she woke, she felt as if she had a wadding of cotton stuffed between her ears. Her forehead rested upon something soft and slightly scratchy. Wool. A man’s jacket. No doubt she was ruining her hair, and she groaned. Groggily, she lifted her head and realized that she had been resting on Quentin’s shoulder. 

He shifted, and his eyes opened. They were thin and dark from sleep, but they saw her, took in the way they both reclined against the back of the sofa. His hand had made a short journey in their rest, and sat upon her thigh.

The clock ticked upon the mantle. A servant walked by the closed door. Margo swallowed, not breaking his gaze. 

“My lady,” Quentin whispered. At first Margo opened her mouth to correct him, to entreat him once more to call her by her given name instead of an old title given to her by a father who would rather see her in a nunnery than happy and wed to the man she loved, but… there was something about the words in his mouth. 

They were reverent, thankful. 

So when she spoke, all that exhaled from her lips was:

“Quentin.”

He gasped, almost inaudibly, but Margo detected it from the raise of his chest. His hand, ever so slightly, pressed against where it sat on her leg. His lips parted again. 

“I–”

There was a soft knock at the door. 

They did not spring apart, as Margo had thought. Rather, Quentin just broke her gaze, removing his hand and looking the other way. He straightened his jacket, a red flush creeping up through his high collar. She sat up, swallowing against the lump in her throat. 

“Who is it?” she called, her voice cracking on the last word. 

“Franz, my lady. I didn’t want to disturb you. May I come in?”

Margo cleared her throat. What on earth did the servants think was happening in here?

“Of course, Franz.”

The footman entered immediately, carrying a small letter on his tray. Margo stood immediately, putting some distance between her and Quentin. She felt a sting in the tender skin of her underarm where her corset had dug into her as she slept. 

“A letter just arrived for you, My Lady.”

“Thank you, Franz.”

Margo opened the gilded envelope with slightly clumsy fingers, the paper thick and expensive. Her heart sank when she read the first line.

“What is it?” Quentin asked.

“It would appear my cousin’s Winter Ball is in two week's time.”

Lady Sophia Hanson’s Winter Ball was _the_ social event of the season, only dwarfed in splendor and opulence by the balls hosted by the royal family. It was there that Eliot and Margo had made their reintroduction to society three years ago after his wildly successful European tour. They were childless, hopeless, and living in a drafty townhouse with far too many empty rooms that not even their expensive German furnishings could fill. But by God– they were _beautiful._

In the stillness of the parlor, Margo remembered. 

“You look ravishing tonight, Bambi,” Eliot had said, spinning her around in their dance. Her skirts fanned out gracefully, catching the light of the candles overhead. 

Margo came back to his arms with a step and twirl, clasping his hand to continue their waltz. 

“I thought to make a statement,” she said, grinning wide. “Is it too subtle?”

Eliot laughed– Margo’s dress was deep red satin, a bold and deliberate choice. This was, after all, her first Viennese society event as a married woman, and what better way to shed the pastels of her girlhood than with ruby red? She was a jewel upon her husband’s arm, passion polished to a perfect heady gleam.

“It’s perfect.” Eliot leaned in close. Scandalously close, even for a husband to his wife. “Lady McCallister has been watching you all evening.”

“Good,” Margo said, nearly stepping on Eliot’s words in her glee. “Good. She can rot with her jealousy for all I care– she wishes she could wear such a color.”

“Too true, my wicked friend.” 

They lost themselves in the dance for another few moments, Eliot’s spinning making Margo deliciously dizzy as any good lead partner should do. Idri had shown them how to _properly_ waltz in Berlin, stating that the Russians had perfected the Viennese art until they were masters. She didn’t know if it was true, but those evenings with just the three of them in the Duke’s apartments had been more sumptuous and grand than any ball. His hands had been large and broad over Eliot’s as he assisted him with the correct form, whispering in his ear to guide him. 

_You must hold her as if you never intend to let her go,_ Idri had said. _Make it known to your partner. She must know it through your gaze alone._

Margo had laughed then, overwhelmed by the intensity in Idri’s words and breaking Eliot’s gaze before he could follow his lover’s instructions. But at this moment, surrounded by all of Viennese society, Eliot watched her and she did not look away. His right hand was firm where it pressed beneath her shoulder blades, his left clasped hard in her own. She allowed her husband’s gaze to invade her, to permeate her very soul as they spun, and spun, and spun…

“Margo?”

She started, dropping the invitation she still held in her hand. She apologized, but Quentin was beside her in the next moment, stooping to retrieve it before Franz could step from his place by the door. He handed her the letter, and their fingers brushed.

“Will you still be permitted to attend without an escort?”

Margo cleared her throat once more, indicating he should read the invitation himself. 

“I shall not be without an escort, as Sophia has invited you as well,” she said. “If you will consent to attend with me, that is.” 

“I— that is, I would be honored, of course,” Quentin stammered as his eyes passed over the elegant calligraphy. _To Herr and Lady Waugh,_ Margo knew it read, and below that, _Herr Quentin Coldwater._ “But would it be appropriate, for us to arrive together, without Eliot?” 

Margo hummed, leaving Quentin to stand before the piano once more. She dragged her fingers idly over a few keys, a slightly wicked idea formulating in her mind’s eye. 

“Perhaps not,” she agreed. She looked at Quentin, feeling the tug of a grin at her lips. “And _yet_ , what is life for, if not for the occasional brush with scandal?” 

She had ordered a gown weeks ago for just this occasion. There was still time to call upon one of Eliot’s many favors with his tailor, and get Quentin a new jacket. Something to compliment her. Let Eliot hear about how _fine_ they looked together. 

“Shall we see which of my acquaintances is the first to write Eliot in a panic?” she mused. Oh, _yes_ , she was beginning to like this idea very much. “That will wake up the town, when I appear in public on the arm of my husband’s very own unmarried protege.” 

Turning back to the piano, she sat, her fingers finding the opening chords to one of Eliot’s many _Rhapsodies_. They rang loud and bold in the quiet room, cutting through her earlier fears. She would not shy away from his betrayal. She would not be stopped. 

She exhaled, feeling invigorated. 

“What do you say, Quentin?” 

Quentin approached the piano. He considered her from across the keyboard, and his hands rested on the wooden edge of the open piano. Margo met his eye, and he did not look away. She saw writ in his expression the apprehension that followed the announcement of any society social event, but also in his eye there was a spark. It would seem there was more to this man than sadness, after all. 

“I believe I am content to follow your lead, Margo.” 

“Excellent.”

Margo struck another chord, carelessly embellishing the opening melody in the higher register. It was a butchery of Eliot’s composition, but she was making it her own, just for the pleasure of it. She glanced up at Q, who had raised his eyebrows, but made no comment on her reinvention of his lover’s most famous work. She grinned down at the keyboard, and continued to play.

It was time for all of them to enjoy a little improvisation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some historical notes:
> 
> The piece that Margo played during this chapter was Frederic Chopin's Nocturne in C-Sharp minor, no. 1. Chopin was a contemporary of Schumann and Liszt, known just as much for his romantic bout of tuberculosis as his wonderful music. Liszt especially was a great admirer of his, modeling many of his compositions after Chopin's, especially his Ballades and Consolations, and he even wrote a (dubiously accurate) biography of Chopin after Chopin's death. Chopin is also theorized to have been genderqueer and bisexual, his longest affair being with the writer George Sand, a female writer who often dressed as a man. She is a fascinating historical figure in her own right. 
> 
> The story Quentin tells Margo about "Herr Reynard" being abusive towards his children is a real story adapted from Robert Schumann's letters to a friend after a short time living with Clara Wieck while he trained with her father, Herr Wieck. After watching the scene of domestic violence and abuse towards Clara's brother, and her cool indifference towards it, he wrote to his friend, "Are these people even human beings?" On a related note, the quote at the beginning of the refers to the time when Herr Wieck sought to separate Clara and Robert and keep them from marrying, ordering Clara to not even converse with Robert at a party. This forced separation sent Robert into one of his many depressive spirals, as does Quentin in his separation from Eliot. 
> 
> Thank you as always for your support and comments! We cherish all of you.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all our dear music and Romance lovers! Sorry for the wait on this (lengthy) chapter. The school year is back in session and we must all suffer real life schedules. But fear not! Much progress has been made in the rest of Act 3 and we look forward to sharing Eliot, Quentin, and Margo's remaining adventures! Much love and kisses to all our readers, kudos leavers, and faithful commenters.

_Knock knock._

“Herr Coldwater?”

Quentin groaned, a low irritated sound. “Yes, Franz?”

“It’s nearly eight, sir, and you asked me to—”

Quentin tossed aside his bedclothes with a deep sigh.

“Yes, yes, to wake me. Thank you.”

“Lady Margo will be sitting down to breakfast shortly,” Franz informed him, voice muffled through the door. “Unless—” a hesitant pause. “—unless you would prefer a tray?” 

God, that was tempting. With the aid of his accommodating valet Quentin might never have to leave his bed again. However— 

“No, thank you Franz. I’ll join Lady Margo shortly.”

“Very good, sir. You’ll find some fresh shirts pressed in the wardrobe.”

Quentin’s feet hit the ground, and he rubbed at his eyes vigorously. A week had passed, and then two, and the stabbing pain of Eliot’s absence had settled into a steady throb behind his ribs. It was preferable at least to the terrifying numbness that had left Quentin bedridden. Since Margo’s heroic intervention, Quentin had tried to keep himself in a routine, to make habit his new lover, lest he fall victim to melancholia’s tempting spell. Each day he rose early, washed and dressed, ate breakfast with Margo at the table, and used the morning to compose. At first, working in the morning only reminded him that Eliot was gone and that he wouldn’t hear his music as he woke, but he came to like it. The morning brought cold light, where the afternoon was hazy and overwarm from the well-tended fires. It brought a new, well-needed sharpness to his compositions in this new chapter of his life. 

That particular morning after breakfast, the day before Lady Sophia’s Winter Ball, he sat at the piano in the parlor, working through a sweeping bit of theme when Margo entered the room, her face pinched as she looked down at a letter in her hands. 

“My lady?” Quentin said when she didn’t immediately speak. 

Margo looked up, as if just realizing where she was. “Oh. Forgive me, Q. My mother always said reading while walking is a rude habit.”

Quentin shook his head with a silent laugh, marking a note before setting aside his pen. Sometimes he forgot Margo hailed from the aristocracy, but such bizarre comportment rules could only have been learned from an Earl’s wife. 

“No matter. Is it a distressing correspondence?” Quentin chanced, not wanting to pry. 

Margo shook her head but her smile was tight. “No, no–it’s nothing. Just some useless hearsay from a cousin. I actually came here to remind you of your appointment at the tailor today for your last fitting.” She folded the letter and set it on the side table. “There was word from Herr Meyer that he needs to take one more measurement to complete your new jacket for tomorrow.”

“The man likes to take a risk with time, does he not?”

Margo shrugged, some of her usual ease returning to her expression. “Such is the life of Vienna’s best tailor.” 

She came to peer over Quentin’s shoulder, as if to read his music, but her expression still seemed far away, as though she were deep in thought. She didn’t comment on his work in progress, but she gave his arm an encouraging squeeze before straightening. . 

“Well, I’m off to tea at Sophia’s house,” she declared, picking up a set of her gloves from the end table. “She swears that she needs my help desperately for last minute preparations. Last minute gossip, no doubt.”

Quentin laughed, but it was stiff, still a bit discomfited by Margo’s strange mood. 

She left then, and Quentin returned to his composition sitting on the piano. It wasn’t entirely new, something he had started back in Leipzig. The theme had been one of loneliness as he sat in his scant bachelor’s apartment, reflecting the hollowness inside when one does not know love. He had thought with his return to melancholy that it would be appropriate to continue, but he found that even now it still didn’t capture his feeling entirely. He had known the taste of true love now, whereas before it had only been a fantasy, and the tepid quality clinging to the piece sufficed to communicate neither its triumphs nor the agony of its estrangement. 

But he tried, and it was more an attempt to keep his mind busy that any earnest belief that it would grow into anything useful. His melodies meandered and trailed off without resolution. His harmonies found no stasis or release, only tension. And what was tension without release?

Boredom. Utter tedium. 

Margo returned in the early afternoon, bidding him hello through the open doorway but otherwise not disturbing him. In truth, he wished she would. It wasn’t as if he was making great artistic strides and he found his talks with Margo to be the only true balm for his sadness. 

A knock sounded at the front door some time later, and Franz, anxious in his new role as Underbutler now that Todd was away with Eliot, answered it. Quentin continued to play, wondering if Margo was hosting some ladies for the afternoon. 

“-- no, I’m afraid Herr Coldwater is working now, Fraulein, shall I leave a message for him?”

Quentin stilled his hands at the sound of his name. After Franz finished, there came a smoother, female voice. 

“But I can hear that he’s just stopped, and it’s a lovely day for a walk. Would you please tell him that I’m here to call? I’m sure he could use a break.”

Quentin tensed, balling his hands into fists on his knees. Not _another_ one. 

There were a few more mumbled words from Franz, then Quentin heard his footsteps approach the study. 

“Sir.” Franz looked deeply chagrined. “There is a Fraulein Marie at the door for you, come to call. I told her you were working, but she is most persistent. I know it’s the fifth one this week, sir, but would you– uh– that is to say– ?”

Quentin stood, taking mercy on the footman. If anyone could sympathize with an anxious and stuttering man unsure of how he should best do his duty, it was him. He approached the door, attempting to smooth his hair back into its tie where it had escaped after hours of nervously toying with it at the piano. It, like his ongoing saga with all the eligible young women of Vienna, was a hopeless cause.

A young, brown-haired young woman stood at the door, dressed in pale pink with a brunswick coat and gloves, as if she expected to be walking in the cold. Her chaperone waited on the front walkway. 

“Good afternoon, Fraulein Marie,” he said, trying to smile as warmly as he could while also remaining distant in the doorway. 

She was little more than a girl, perhaps eighteen, and shame on her guardians for encouraging her to call on such an older man. She curtsied, shaking a little as she rose and gave him her best debutante smile. 

“Herr Coldwater, I was only just in the neighborhood, and I wondered if you might fancy a walk. It is such a lovely day.”

“Um, yes. That it is,” Quentin agreed, stalling. 

“Very warm for February.”

“Indeed.” Quentin swallowed, unsure of what to do with his hands and settling for clasping them behind his back. “I am so sorry to be so rude–”

“Your butler told me that you were working,” she interrupted, smiling hopefully. “But perhaps you might fancy a break? Surely some brisk air can only stoke the creative mind.”

Quentin sighed, looking anywhere but at this poor young woman. He did not envy the unmarried maidens of Vienna, abandoning propriety and basic politeness in their desperate searches to find husbands before the season’s end. He was still a young bachelor at the age of twenty-nine, void of property or a steady living, but she would be considered old before reaching the age of twenty-two if she failed to marry.

“I really am sorry,” he repeated. “But I’m afraid I am feeling under the weather, and would feel tremendous guilt should you catch it from me.”

“Oh,” her face twisted in disappointment. “I see. Perhaps sometime soon, then?”

“Perhaps,” he said, his hand already on the door. “Until then I must bid you goodbye, and a pleasant day.”

Fraulein Marie wished him the same, and Quentin slowly shut the door, not wanting to appear too hasty. His mother had cursed him with eternal politeness, and he cursed her now that he couldn’t be more frank. Ever since Eliot’s theatrics at the opera, word had reached the ears of Vienna’s unmarried masses that Quentin Coldwater, newly successful composer, was highly eligible, despite his lack of property and steady living. It would seem that Eliot’s plan was working, despite his being absent to truly witness it. It didn’t matter that Quentin lived with his mentor, all that mattered was the sum of money that had been deposited into his bank account after the performance of his concerto at the royal theater. 

Once satisfied that she was gone, he turned from the doorway.

“Margo,” He called somewhat coarsely, but he was just so _tired._ “I’m going to kill him, if one more girl knocks on this door I swear I’ll wring his neck.”

“Not if I can get to him first,” Margo called back from upstairs. “Shall we have a foot race to Hungary and see who wins the pleasure?” 

Quentin shook his head ruefully as he re-entered the parlor, intent on returning to his mediocre composition. Something drew his eye, however. A piece of paper sat on the side table, and he recognized it as the letter Margo held earlier. The one she had read with such a concerned eye. Abandoning his previous thoughts of politeness, he picked it up, and started to read.

Immediately, he felt ashamed. It was only a letter to Margo from a distant cousin who lived in Pest, giving Margo the details about an elderly and ill relative that was surely not long for this world. He was about to set it back on the table, to pretend he had never had such a lapse in manners, when a further-down paragraph caught his eye. 

… _Imagine my surprise, dear cousin, when I saw your husband’s name appear on the program at the theater. Of course we attended, we would never miss such a talent, and we invited him to our home afterwards with some other friends for a bit of an impromptu gathering. Eliot was so good to play for us then, even after such a rousing concert, but I regret to inform you that he fell ill as the night drew to a close, and had to be shown home to his apartments with the help of our footman and his dear butler…_

Quentin didn’t read on, holding the letter fast, his eyes burning. Eliot was alone, determined to break his own heart, and little better than a servant in the eyes of all the cold aristocrats of Europe. And now he might be unwell? Quentin felt as though he might be sick. He made the short journey from the parlor to the smaller sitting room where Margo sometimes entertained, standing in the doorway and glaring at where Margo sat on the sofa with a book in her lap. 

She looked up, brow furrowing. “Quentin– is something the matter?”

“When were you going to tell me of this?” Quentin held up the letter.

Margo stood, starting forward. “Q–”

“Don’t! He was ill in Pest?” His voice trembled, the edge of vulnerability only stoking the fire of his anger. “And you knew this morning of it– How could you not tell me then, so that I might take action?”

“Take action?” Margo repeated his words with skepticism. “If you read on, you’ll see that he recovered and is _fine_ now. I’m more concerned that you thought it proper to read my private correspondence.”

That gave Quentin pause, and he unclenched his fingers from the letter, reaching across the short distance between them to hand it to her. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “If forgot myself. But you seemed worried, and— _I’m_ worried. For him.”

She took the letter, folding it until it nearly disappeared into the palm of her hand. 

“Worry is a pointless venture, which is why _as a friend_ I spared you the details of my cousin’s gossip.” Her voice held no forgiveness. “What ‘action’ do you think you could take? Eliot is hundreds of miles away from us.”

Quentin tugged his hands through his hair. The tie at the back of his head was all but a lost cause. 

“We could go to him.”

He spoke the idea the moment it sprang into his mind and Quentin couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before.

Margo tossed the crumpled letter aside, her brow furrowed impatiently. “You’re mad.”

“Think on it, Margo.” His tone changed to pleading. He tried to meet her wandering gaze. “We could go together and help him see reason. He was so upset, so blinded. Perhaps now…” 

_Perhaps now that he has suffered, he has changed his mind,_ Quentin did not allow himself to speak aloud. _Perhaps now that he has done his Catholic’s penance, he will allow himself our love once more._

“You know in your heart that we should be with him,” Quentin said to Margo. “This isn’t natural.”

“Husbands leave their wives and lovers all the time. That is the way of men, Quentin. Or hasn’t anyone expressed that sentiment to you yet? I assure you I’ve heard nothing else in the last fortnight.” 

She pushed past him into the hallway, but Quentin followed. 

“You can’t believe that– you can’t think–”

She turned abruptly, her hands on her hips. “I’ll tell you what I think plainly, Quentin. I _think_ that you have forgotten that it is the dead of winter, and that a blizzard is on its way to Vienna. Eliot might be content to travel in these conditions but I assure you I am not.”

“What does _that_ have to do with anything? Eliot is _ill._ He needs us.”

“He _was_ ill, Quentin, and if he were truly unwell we would have heard word from Todd long before my cousin’s leisurely correspondence. I swear that butler would take a bullet for my husband, fool that he is.” 

Margo’s lips pursed, as though it chagrined her to have brought Todd’s loyalty into their argument. Quentin, in his darker moments, had held his own bitterness towards their faithful butler. He, after all, was the only one among them who was still permitted at Eliot’s side, even as a servant.

“Besides,” Margo continued, “If you knew anything about the aristocracy and the way they communicate you would know that he was not sick, but–” She lowered her voice as one of the maids passed by them in the narrow hallway. “Inebriated. This wouldn’t be the first time he’s drank too much at a party, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.”

Quentin shook his head, aghast at her casual tone of voice. “So you believe he does not drink too much otherwise? You believe this is a normal, healthy course of action for him?”

“Are you accusing Eliot of being a drunk? How vulgar.”

Quentin scowled. “You twist my words. I’m merely saying that whatever he thought this separation would accomplish, clearly he is miserable. I would think that you would be more adventurous when it came to your husband.”

Her nostrils flared. “Don’t attempt to insult me in my own home.”

“Margo–”

“ _Adventurous_ ? You know nothing of what I have risked for our union. All that I have _done_ .” Margo’s voice was nearly a shout. “I am his _wife_. I won’t chase him.”

She turned on her heel, stalking towards the staircase with a swish of her skirts. 

“I am his lover,” Quentin called after her, “And I _will_.”

“You say you’re not going, then I’ll go on my own,” Quentin declared, feeling reckless and mean. “I could find a stagecoach to Pest by morning.”

Margo stilled, and Quentin knew in that moment that he had gone too far. She turned, her face twisted with anger.

“Go then! You needn’t waste your funds, I’ll see to it that the carriage is ready for you by morning. Then you will see what happens when you corner Eliot like a stray dog. When you see him at his worst, drunk, or entangled in the arms of some piece of rough trade.” She threw up her hands. “By all means, break your own heart, as he is determined to break his.”

Quentin blinked, tensing his jaw. He held fast.

“You think so little of him.”

Margo stared at him in disbelief. Then she threw her head back and laughed humorlessly. 

“You know very little of how I regard my husband, Quentin, I assure you. But I see now that you two are indeed cut from the same cloth, if you would also find it so _easy_ to leave me here.”

Quentin wanted to tug out his own hair in frustration. “You do not have to stay! Come with me. What is mere pride in comparison to being with the one we hold most dear?”

“You will never understand. I may as well be chained to the city gates.” 

Margo made to step closer, then seemed to change her mind, shaking her head with a sigh. 

“Eliot’s money paid for this house,” she continued, “But _I_ am the one who built our place here, brick by ugly, conniving, social brick. And it is I alone, even now, who gives a _damn_ about safeguarding it.”

She stormed away, mounting the staircase with loud clacking of her heels against the wood. He stood frozen, waiting until she slammed the door to her bedroom behind her. 

Quentin bit his lip, drawing his teeth over the flesh until it stung. He ran a hand through his hair, feeling half mad, as though he might tug it from its roots and with it all his simmering fury. He hadn’t felt such anger burn through him in weeks, not since the night before Eliot left. And even then, it had been doused by his pain, his hurt, his desperation. They had shouted at each other and made love all in the same night, clinging to their last moments before they ceased to exist. Quentin had not been _allowed_ anger, Eliot desperate for his touch even as he cruelly pushed him away with the morning light. 

He felt it now. He felt it now, clear and hard as crystal and he would _go_ to Eliot and express it. Once he could see with his own eyes that Eliot was well, by God he would let him have it. Eliot would see, then. Faced with the truth he would see that he was wrong and that Quentin was his and he would come _home_.

In the space of a breath Quentin returned to his room, throwing his small satchel across his sheets. He wouldn’t need much for the journey– he wasn’t Eliot, or Margo for that matter. He could subsist with a few shirts and drawers and perhaps a change of trousers. His old grey jacket would do fine for the weather and the dirt of travel. He rifled through his side table for spare coin and banknotes. If he could get his affairs in order, he still possessed enough from the sales of his last composition to buy himself a place in a modest coach to Pest. And if Eliot had already moved on, he would simply follow him to his next destination. Quentin would chase Eliot to all the capitals of Europe, if that was what it took. Once his journey was underway, then he would plan. Then he would _think_ , but first he must follow the draw of his heart to Eliot. His mind would know no rest until the miles between them began to shrink.

His breath shuddered as he exhaled. He reached for a shirt that poked out from beneath a pillow. How it had escaped the laundry who could say, but it would do until—

Quentin’s hand grasped smooth silk instead of the rough linen he expected and he froze. He pulled and revealed a formal shirt, with a full placard buttons, reserved for performances in front of aristocratic concert halls. The sleeves were much too long for him, the shoulders too broad. It wasn’t his. 

It was Eliot’s. 

Quentin sat on the bed, letting the material run through his fingers like water. He fingered the cuffs, and the collar, where the silk had sat so dearly against his lover’s skin.

Eliot had made love to him wearing that shirt, on one of the many occasions when even the time it took to fully undress was too long a delay to their union. The buttons had pressed impressions into the skin of Quentin’s chest as Eliot had made love to him, the subtle pinch of pain only adding to the gratification of having Eliot so close to him. Only after, when they laid panting and pleasure drunk had Eliot tugged it over his head and tossed it aside, so they could sleep skin to skin in each other’s arms. Fen had found it when Margo had ordered her to clean Quentin’s room, and it had been all he could do not to snatch it out of her hands when he saw her pull it from under the bed. It had been worth her look of pity, to sleep that night with silk against his cheek and with it the ghost of Eliot’s touch. It was the first rest he’d had in days.

He had forgotten about it since, safe and preserved under his pillow as he reentered the world at Margo’s side. 

Dropping his satchel, Quentin buried his face in the soft material, inhaling deeply. With his eyes closed, he could still breathe Eliot in, his strong, masculine scent underlyed with the fragrant Parisian laundry soap he and Margo preferred. Eliot could be here, bouncing around his room with his buttons half-undone, his eyes alight with inspiration or passion, or reaching across Quentin’s sleeping body to transcribe a melody that came to him in a dream. 

Quentin inhaled again, and exhaled out a sob.

In the days after Eliot’s departure, he had been a husk, a shell of a person, unable to cry or smile or lift his own head. His devastation had burrowed deep inside of him, unable to escape the walls he had erected to keep the demons at bay.

But now, his shoulders shook, the sobs bursting from his body broken and raw, heaving from his chest and scraping out of his throat. The anger that had burned through him only minutes ago shed its skin, revealing the throbbing wound inside of him. Eliot, his only comfort so many times this year, was not there to hold him. He was gone, and Quentin left with a forgotten shirt as his only solace. 

When he lowered his hands, that shirt was damp with tears. 

He swiped at his eyes with his jacket sleeve, sniffing loudly. The shirt sat limp and lifeless in his hands, possessing only a memory, its scent fading with each passing moment. Fresher in his mind was the anger written across Margo’s face as he accused her of indifference to Eliot’s plight. How even her laugh held the sound of deep hurt. He had betrayed her with his coarse words. 

He swallowed. What a way he had repaid Margo’s kindness, with accusations and ultimatum. 

The afternoon sun faded as he sat, staring down at the wrinkled fabric in his hands. Franz came by to ask if he would be dressing for dinner, or if he would prefer a tray. Quentin accepted the latter suggestion, not wishing to show himself to Margo but not wanting to cause the house any more worry. Frau Schiller had gone on a crusade after his episode of melancholia, aghast that she had allowed him to go days without eating so much as a tea biscuit. 

He felt selfish and small, undeserving of the care that so many offered him. 

The satchel sat on the floor, half-full and spilling over the floor. His drive to fill it had dissipated. Margo was right. They could not chase Eliot. He had his own journey to pursue. Quentin could only pray it led him home to them. 

Quentin pressed a cuff, still dry, to his cheek. Eliot’s shirt held his scent, but this was not his essence. That essence was _here_ , in Vienna, in this townhouse. This was the place Quentin had been welcomed to, a home the man he loved had built with his wife. 

There was no Eliot without Margo. Quentin couldn’t leave her.

He stood, setting the shirt aside. He would ask Franz to launder it and then hang it in Eliot’s wardrobe. He ate his supper when it was brought, then set about undressing and readying himself for bed, praying that the morning sun might seek to grant him forgiveness. Slipping between his sheets, he succumbed to slumber much quicker than usual, his body and mind overcome with exhaustion. 

When he woke, it was with a calm sense of purpose. He dressed, and set a course for Margo’s room.

He knocked three times, and then clasped his hands behind his back to wait. There was murmuring behind the door, and then the soft footsteps of a lady’s maid’s practical shoes. Fen opened a small gap in the door, denying Quentin the sight of Margo’s private space, as was right. Margo and Eliot’s marriage bed was not meant for his eyes.

“Herr Coldwater–” Fen started, her voice low and a bit disapproving. “It’s quite early. Can I help you, sir?”

Quentin swallowed, warm under his collar. “Yes, well, I’m sorry. The hour is earlier than I realized but I was wondering if Lady Margo would speak with me, if she is awake.”

Fen raised her eyebrows, properly horrified. “My Lady is dressing now, perhaps you should seek her out later at breakfast–”

“Is that Quentin?” Margo’s muffled voice asked from behind the door. 

Fen pursed her lips and disappeared for a moment, followed by more of their private murmuring. He hadn’t spent much time with Fen, truth be told. She was Margo’s own companion, whereas Todd served as the house butler in addition to Eliot’s valet. She was the pinnacle of politeness and cheer, but Quentin had always sensed an air of distrust coming from her, aimed in his direction. 

Before he could think on it further, the matter resolved itself quickly, because then there was the creak of the chair and the soft footfalls of bare feet. Before Quentin could fully prepare himself, Margo opened the door wide, dressed in only her petticoats and corset, her hair loose around her shoulders in its natural curls. 

She raised her eyebrows, a haughty pout to her mouth. 

“You wished to see me?”

Quentin averted his gaze immediately, staring at the hallway wallpaper pattern as if it held the secrets of the ether. 

“My lady– “

“It’s Margo, Quentin.”

He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry as sand. “Yes. Well. I only wished to apologize. For my behavior yesterday.”

Out of the corner of his eye, she crossed her arms. 

“I’m surprised to see you here,” she said, her tone hollow and aristocratic, similar to how she spoke while out in society. “I thought you might have taken Franz and tried to get some traveling done early.”

Shame warmed Quentin’s cheeks. “I have decided not to go.”

“I hope that wasn’t on my account.”

Quentin sighed. “Not entirely.” He looked up, finally able to meet her gaze despite her attire, or lack thereof. “But it was in part. You have a duty to be present here, to keep yourself safe as well as Eliot. I would assist you in such duties, rather than hinder them as my leaving might.”

“Hmph,” Margo acknowledged. “You speak well, Herr Coldwater when you have a mind for it. You might have been well suited to the law, if not for your temper.”

Quentin winced, but the chastisement was well earned. “As you say, Margo. It is best that I keep to music.”

“I am still rather cross with you. Is that going to present an issue?”

“Not at all–” he stuttered. “I find I’m rather cross with myself now, as well.”

She surveyed him, eyes narrowed, and Quentin found himself unsure if he were truly taller than Margo Waugh in that moment. 

“I suppose you don’t wish to accompany me to Sophia’s ball tonight?”

Quentin cleared his throat. “I would– that is– if you would still deem to have me.”

Her mouth twitched, as if she were fighting a smile. Quentin’s shoulders relaxed. He hadn’t realized he had been so tense. Margo had her temper, but it seemed she didn’t intend to torture him too intensely.

“I imagine you didn’t go to your appointment with Herr Meyer yesterday.”

Quentin shook his head. “I did not. It, well, it slipped my mind.”

“I can imagine.”

She pursed her lips, thinking. With a hand, she brushed her hair behind her shoulder, revealing the bare skin of her decolletage. Quentin kept his eyes staunchly on her face, thinking that perhaps Eliot’s wife did intend to torture him a little after all. After a moment, she shrugged. 

“Well, it’s not as if Gerhard doesn’t owe me a few favors, what with the whole waistcoat travesty last year.”

Quentin’s brow furrowed. “What waistcoat–”

“No time to explain.”

She turned on her heel, sitting back at her vanity. Fen immediately began working on her hair without instruction. Margo’s attention snapped back to Quentin, still standing awkwardly in the doorway. 

“I will meet you by the door in ten minutes time,” she said, as if Quentin were a particularly slow schoolboy.

“Do you not wish to have breakfast?”

“Breakfast is for those who are tailored more than twelve hours in advance of the event.” She turned to the mirror, an implied dismissal. “And do wear a different jacket. I can’t be seen out in public with a gentleman who leaves bits of thread behind him as he walks.”

Quentin did as he was told and slowly descended the stairs to wait. Margo had made no offer of forgiveness, but upon reflection had his apology been sincere enough? It was as if their argument had been annulled, struck from the record books to create a fresh slate upon which they would decide the events of today. It wasn’t the ideal situation, but better than the alternative. 

A few minutes later, he followed behind her billowing cloak on the cold street, her footsteps quick and capable, and he wondered what she truly thought. She was a lady now, all poise and perfection measured to a finite degree, but yesterday that facade had broken, if only for a moment. Margo had seemed a stone block of fortitude in the face of Eliot’s departure, solid as lead where Quentin had crumbled instantly, but yesterday he had seen behind the walls she carefully curated between her and the world. Margo was hurting, as he was. How she displayed it was unusual, and Quentin made a mental note to observe her idiosyncrasies more carefully, that he might support her as she had him in his days of darkness.

Soon the were at the tailor’s, Margo was offered a full tea service while she waited, and Quentin was poked and prodded with more pins to secure a more fitted look for his new evening jacket. Gerhard was as professional as always, not commenting on Quentin’s rudeness in missing their appointment yesterday. He might have been the only person in Vienna uninterested in hearing about Eliot’s sudden departure from the city. Then again, if Eliot was correct, then Gerhard might have more sympathy towards the complexities of their relationship than most.

“Is the color to your liking, sir?” Gerhard asked as he finished pinning a finicky seam at Quentin’s shoulders. 

“Yes, thank you.”

Quentin straightened the lapels as Gerhard went to fetch more pins in another room. He surveyed himself in the long mirror. The jacket clashed horribly with his old brown trousers and his faded blue waistcoat. Eliot had mentioned bringing Quentin back to the tailor after Christmas, to refresh his winter wardrobe. Quentin had been looking forward to paying for his own clothes now that he was able, though the thought of boxes arriving for him at the townhouse with Eliot’s name on the order slip had always brought him a guilty sort of pleasure. 

“Do you have trousers that will suit it?” Margo’s voice interrupted his thoughts. 

Quentin cleared his throat. “Yes. My black pair are still in good condition.”

Margo nodded, sipping her tea. The seconds passed quietly. 

“Do you remember…” Quentin started quietly. “How in the summer, Eliot dressed me to match your dress at the party?”

Margo’s smile was small. She set her teacup down with a clink. 

“Yes. My dark blue sash with your navy jacket. Very fetching, and not too overt.” She looked off to the side, as if remembering.

“Everything seemed so simple then.”

Margo sighed, rising and coming to stand in front of him. Up on the platform he was almost comically tall, but she still blocked his reflection in the mirror. 

“Things are always simpler when Eliot is here,” she said, her voice still curiously soft. It sounded like a warning, less like the fact that it was. “If you don’t wish to come tonight, I won’t hold it against you. There’s no harm in getting a new winter jacket either way.”

Quentin surveyed her expression. There was none of the anger from the day before, but neither was she curt and overly polite as she had been this morning. 

“But if you do choose to go…” She took his hand where it hung loose by his side, giving it a light squeeze. “We will still be the best dressed couple in Vienna.”

Something sparked in Quentin’s chest. He smiled. 

“Even without Eliot?”

Margo smiled, her tongue poking mischievously through her teeth. 

_“Especially_ without Eliot.”

At that moment, Gerhard returned, and Margo’s hand fell away from his. Whether it was the draft or the absence of her touch, Quentin felt colder after she returned to her seat. 

Again, it wasn’t forgiveness, but even without it, the nerves in Quentin’s belly settled somewhat.

They left fifteen minutes later with Gerhard’s solemn promise that Johann would deliver the jacket late that afternoon before they departed for the ball. Quentin spent the remainder of the afternoon wandering around the house while Margo received several ladies in the drawing room, traveling from his bedroom to the parlor and back again. He tried to compose, and managed a line before giving up and taking a walk down to the kitchens, where Frau Schiller forced upon him a slice of cake and the maid Irina shared her clove cigarettes without fear of scolding, accustomed as they were to Quentin’s informal ways. 

He was aware that he was being coddled a bit, after his fit of melancholy, but he could never force himself to turn down Frau Schiller’s kindness. The cook embodied a kind of warm maternal condescension that Quentin had never enjoyed from his mother by blood. Besides, he would need his strength if he was to survive this night, and a slice of Frau Schiller’s walnut cake could sustain an imperial regiment. He needn’t worry if he were too nervous to eat any of Lady Hanson’s delicacies.

Soon it was time to get ready for the ball. 

He dressed with Franz’s help, unable to turn down the poor man once in the last two weeks since Margo had dragged from his bed. Franz had been frantic while Quentin had been indisposed, knocking on his door multiple times a day with increasing panic. Now, he sought to fulfill Quentin’s every need, and the dedicated attention made Quentin wish to crawl back under the covers once more. 

“Will you be wearing a cravat tonight, sir? Or would you rather have your black necktie? The weather is so cold you might prefer–”

“A cravat will do well, thank you.”

Franz presented him with two options and then puttered around the room while Quentin tied it around his throat in front of the full length mirror, his fingers not nearly as deft as Eliot’s, but the limp bow would have to do.

“Would you like the brass cufflinks, Herr Coldwater?” Franz asked, opening the small drawer. “I believe they will match your new jacket very well.”

Quentin nodded with a smile, holding out his hand as Franz set them in his palm. He ducked his head to fasten the cufflinks, but his nerves frayed as he felt Franz’s eyes on him.

“I suppose you think this all rather scandalous,” Quentin said, laughing nervously. His fingers stumbled with the tiny fasteners. “My escorting Lady Margo tonight.”

He dropped one of the pieces, and it fell to the floor, rolling under the desk. Franz retrieved it before Quentin could move. 

“Not that it’s my place to say, sir–” Franz handed him back the small piece of brass. “But I think it’s very brave of you and Lady Margo both.”

The fastenings finally clicked into place. Quentin nervously lowered his hands to his sides. 

“Yes, well, I’m sure this is a minor situation compared to the drama we have subjected this house to over the past weeks.”

Franz shook his head, looking down at his shoes. He looked younger in that moment, even though he was nearly twenty-five to Quentin’s twenty-nine. 

“Herr Waugh and Lady Margo have been good to me– I could never judge them. And you sir, you have always been kind, though I know you are not used to being served as we do in Vienna. What troubles you may have are not for me to speak on, nor would I care to. I’m sure the rest of the house would say the same.”

Quentin blinked. It was the most words he had ever heard spoken from Franz’s mouth that didn’t involve his clothes or daily routines. 

“Of course, I’m sorry to have doubted your constitution.”

Franz laughed, handing Quentin his new waistcoat. “No offence taken, sir.”

He finished getting ready, shrugging into his new dark grey jacket. Franz exited with his wrinkled day suit and Quentin stepped into the hallway behind him. Fen was only just ducking out of Lady Margo’s chambers, one of her lady’s hats under her arm. The suspicion with which she had regarded him this morning was gone, and she smiled while dipping a shallow curtsy. 

“My Lady is almost ready,” she said, glancing back towards Margo’s room. “Are you excited for the evening, sir?”

Quentin smiled. “I am, if a little nervous,” he replied, finding the words to be true only as they passed his lips. Something tingled in his fingertips and his belly, nerves that had nothing to do with his frazzled disposition and melancholia. “But good nerves, I think.”

“That’s wonderful,” Fen said through a smile. There was the click of a heel, and then Margo’s door crept open once more. “Ah, here she is now–”

Quentin’s breath caught in his throat as Margo stepped into the hall wreathed in gold. She shimmered in the low candlelight of the hall, her skirts made up of layer upon layer of sheer ochre tulle and intricate floral embroidery all in gold thread. The fitted bodice and generous sleeves left her neck and shoulders bare, and her warm complexion glowed in the halo cast by the sparkling embroidery at the neckline. Sleek satin gloves fit up to her elbows in a rich sienna brown that perfectly matched Quentin’s waistcoat. Her hair was a fountain of ringlets piled on top of her head like a crown, woven through with a string of pearls. She was like a queen of Heaven stolen out of a cathedral, or perhaps a pagan goddess ready to reign over the sacrifice and bacchanalia that was her rightful due. Her expression certainly seemed more appropriate to the latter. 

Quentin swallowed. Margo looked stunning, and she knew it well. Quentin was quite speechless, and she must have found that pleasing as well, because she smiled, warm and regal. He had seen her dressed in finery countless times, with countless variations. She was beautiful– of course she was. But– there was something different tonight. Something in the way she carried herself, the set to her shoulders. 

If this were a normal evening and the world had not turned topsy-turvy, Eliot would have taken Margo’s arm right about now. Quentin would have been content to follow behind, arms clasped behind his back. In truth, he had been content to be the lowly bachelor, tolerated but mostly ignored unless music was required of him, basking in the shadow of Eliot and Margo’s elegance. 

Perhaps there was nothing different about Margo at all. Or perhaps– the only difference now was that she was looking at him. 

He held his arm out for her to take. She did, and they descended the stairs together.

“We make quite a pair,” Margo said, nudging him slightly. “I hadn’t realized that our wardrobe would be so contrasting.”

It was the truth, Quentin realized with a stir in his chest. He resembled the darkness of the ether, only relieved by the white of his shirt and the dark red-brown of his waistcoat, and she was the sun, glittering as it crested over the horizon. More than her dress, it was her eyes, shining and so _alive._

He merely nodded, at a loss for words. 

The frozen February air waited for them outside, and Franz held Margo’s fur wrap ready by the door. Quentin cleared his throat, finding his voice. 

“Please, Franz. Allow me.” 

Franz raised his eyebrows but surrendered Margo’s wrap without comment. Quentin stepped behind her and slid the stole over Margo’s shoulders, smoothing the white mink under his fingers. Margo cast him a curious gaze over her shoulder as his touch lingered.

“My, Q, you’re determined to play the gentleman tonight.”

Quentin pulled his hands away, and allowed Franz to assist him into his overcoat. 

“Just because Eliot must be absent from us doesn’t mean you should endure a lack of chivalry, my lady,” he said, smiling to let Margo know he meant his words to be light hearted. “I intend to take my duties as his substitute very seriously.”

Margo hummed. “A substitute husband,” she mused, taking his arm again when Quentin offered it. “What an intriguing notion. Shall we?” 

Quentin pretended his cheeks were warm only because of the sting of the winter wind as they stepped out into the starry evening. 

~

The applause in the Lady Sophia’s ballroom was just a tinge more enthusiastic than the usual basic politeness allotted by the aristocracy. Quentin grasped the side of the piano and took a shallow bow, smiling tightly at the assembled crowd. They had been there an hour, but in the crowded ballroom it felt like days. His retreat behind the piano had been a welcome but all to brief respite.

Their arrival sparked all manner of whispers and side glances alike, ladies tittering behind their fans and even the most disinterested gentlemen raised their eyebrows at their linked arms. Margo had held her chin high as the butler had announced them:

“Lady Margaret Waugh, Daughter of Earl Hanson, and Herr Quentin Coldwater.”

Quentin wanted to disappear into the toe of his shoe. 

So when Lady Sophia had entreated that he perform whilst the orchestra was setting up, he gladly took the offer. Being stared at whilst performing was preferable to the gossip-hungry eyes framed by silk and curled hair pieces. He played his _Aufschwung_ and a section of a newer composition that he had yet to title. 

“Herr Coldwater, you _must_ tell us the inspiration for your _Papillons,_ my wife and I have been dying to know.”

Suddenly thrust back into the throes of civilized conversation, Quentin no longer had a piano to hide behind. He stumbled over his words, as always, cursing himself. 

“Yes– well– it is an ode to Vienna–” _And ode to Eliot._ “I was inspired by its natural beauty–” _My lover gave me flowers in the park, and I spent weeks composing a melody to capture my elation._ “And the beauty of its people, of course–” _Eliot and Margo looked like deities from Olympus in their finery, and I couldn’t imagine composing music about anything else in that moment–_

“Indeed,” said the Lord of something-or-other whose name Quentin had already forgotten. “The city is lucky to have you. Just last week, young Lady Cecilia played your _Des Abends_ at the Lindner’s party.”

“Your music is the darling of Vienna, Herr Coldwater,” his wife said, smiling widely. “Now, I must introduce you to my niece–”

Hasty, stumbling introductions with a young dark-haired woman wearing a pale green gown turned into a dance as the orchestra finally began their set of sweeping waltzes. Under the insisting gaze of her aunt and uncle, Quentin was powerless to turn them down and he had lost track of Margo an hour ago. The woman he danced with, another Fraulein Marie, he had come to find out, smiled at him as they danced, her steps small and careful. 

“Your music is most enchanting, Herr Coldwater,” she said as they spun. “I was in the audience when Herr Waugh premiered your concerto, and I had never heard anything so beautiful.”

“Thank you, Fraulein,” Quentin recited, concentrating on not stepping on her feet. “I’m grateful for the wonderful reception it received.”

“It was well-deserved,” she said quickly. “And you play so well! I would love to– love to hear more of your more music, some time, if you were willing–”

Quentin’s heart sunk, and so it began. Once the first waltz ended he was passed from the quiet Fraulein Marie to a chattier Fraulein Lena, who’s mother nearly placed her daughter’s hand in Quentin’s before he could properly ask her to dance. Then came Fraulein Amelie, whose palms sweated profusely against his when they took to the floor, looking barely a day over seventeen. His mind spun along with the pulsing music as he was introduced to debutante after debutante, dance partner after dance partner. He was ashamed that their faces began to blend together, his nerves racing. It was a parade of pastel gowns surrounding him on all sides. Lurking through it all, whether real or a mere specter of Quentin’s anxious imagination, was the notorious Lady Hoffman, matron and matchmaker, who Eliot had betrayed him to that ominous night at the opera. Every time he turned his head Quentin was sure he spotted her again, her evergreen gown a dark presence in the corner of his eye whispering to the guardians of some new girl meant to snatch him from Eliot’s willing hands.

 _Would you mind terribly assisting in this matter?_ Quentin’s traitorous mind put poison words in Eliot’s mouth, the scene playing out like some Shakespearean skullduggery. _He’s simply become_ such _a hanger-on, Lady Hoffman. If you could only find a rich enough girl to tempt him away, then I will be free at last—_

“Perhaps you would like to dance with our Christina?” said yet another well-meaning mother about to throw her daughter into Quentin’s arms. He thought if this girl so much as touched him he might be ill. “She would be most honored–”

Before Quentin could stutter his answer, a familiar arm slipped around his. 

“Frau Bittner, how wonderful to see you,” Margo said, her voice smooth as honey. “But I’m afraid I must steal Herr Coldwater away now, once of my husband’s associates is dying to meet him.”

Without waiting for a reply, Margo steered him away. Spots dotted Quentin’s vision, and his stomach churned as the stresses of the evening caught up with him. Despite her words, Margo led him through the throng and into the front hallway, past bowing footman and guests sneaking cigarettes. He barely saw any of it, focusing on the comforting weight of Margo’s arm against his. 

She led him to a door, ducking them both inside an empty bedroom in time for Quentin to truly unravel. 

“Quentin,” Margo said calmly once they were out of the public gaze. “Quentin, you have to breathe–”

“Margo.” Quentin inhaled quicker than he could exhale, as if the air was thick with smoke and he smothered in it. “I’m– all of those women think I’m— because of Eliot. Because he— How could he? H-how could he try to _dispose_ of me like this–”

“Oh my dear.” Margo set her gloved hands upon his chest, stroking slow and even over his lapels. The soft sound of silk against velvet was a single thread of comfort to Quentin’s sanity, the music of the ball only a distant murmur through the walls. “You must know that it was _his_ weakness, not yours, that led to this mess.”

“When he was here I could fight with him, _implore_ him to see reason, but now I am powerless.” He ran a frantic hand through his hair. “It was his deepest wish to be rid of me, and now I must suffer to see it each and every day. And he thinks this will make me happy?”

“Quentin.” Margo’s voice was firm. “There is nothing in this world that can stop Eliot from doing what he thinks is right, or what he thinks is the selfless choice. Not even his love for you. He will sacrifice himself on a pyre of unhappiness every time, unrealizing that in burning himself he also destroys those he loves.”

“But, _why,”_ Quentin sobbed, and fell forward, burying his head against Margo’s shoulder. 

Slowly, she raised her arms and wrapped them around his neck, pulling him close. He in turn wrapped his arms around her, his hands splayed over her back as he squeezed his eyes shut. 

What if all this drama were a mere contrivance, and Eliot simply didn’t love him anymore? It was this, his blackest thought, that threatened to pull Quentin back into the abyss that always lingered at the edge of his mind. Margo was his only anchor. His friend. 

Through the sorrow and the pain coursing through him, he felt something warm bloom in his chest. Tenderness, for the woman who held him– who had stood by him, even when he tested her with the weakness of his mind. The racing of his mind slowed as she stroked the hair at the nape of his neck.

He was thankful, so thankful. 

Seconds turned into minutes, and Margo didn’t release him until his breathing evened out. Only then did she retreat slightly, her arms still around his neck. 

“Are you alright?” she asked quietly. 

He swallowed, nodding. “Yes, I–” His face burned with shame. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”

She shook her head. “Yes, you do, Quentin. We mustn’t keep these things from each other.”

“But yesterday, I was blinded by my selfishness and sought to betray you, to leave you here, when you too have been abandoned.”

Margo’s nostrils flared, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “I feel shame even as you say such a thing. I was foolish to say that you looking after your own heart would be a betrayal to me. Afterall, it was not you who made vows to me. It wasn’t you that left me, who broke my heart—”

“Even so, I wish to be a guard of your heart, and not contribute to its sorrow.”

The words were out of Quentin’s mouth before he could stop them. Margo’s eyes widened, and he was suddenly very aware of where his hands rested at her waist, how her fingers still brushed the hair at the back of his neck. 

“Thank you, Q,” she said, her voice nearly so soft as to be called a whisper. “You are sweet to say such a thing.” 

Slowly, as if he were handling glass, he released her, stepping back. She cleared her throat, brushing her gloved hands over her skirts. 

“They will be looking for us,” Margo said. “We won’t separate again. No winsome maiden will seek to dance with you whilst I am on your arm.”

She turned on her heel, heading for the door. 

“But would you dance with me?” Quentin asked. 

She glanced over her shoulder, smiling. 

“Perhaps.”

Once back in the thick of the party, Quentin’s composure frayed at the edges but held fast thanks to the steadying presence of Margo beside him. It wasn’t proper, to monopolize her company so. It was hardly acceptable, but it felt right. Before they could fully reintegrate, however, Margo’s cousin Sophia accosted them on the edge of the dance floor. 

“Where have you two been?” Sophia demanded, only half joking. “I’ve worked very hard to arrange this evening and yet you seem eager to sneak off and only converse with each other.” 

She was an imposing presence in sapphire blue, with peacock feathers woven into her complex hairstyle, but Margo didn’t flinch as Quentin did.

“Do forgive me, Sophia, I simply grew a bit over warm,” she said. Quentin watched in amazement as the lie eased off her tongue with hardly even a pause. “Herr Coldwater was good enough to escort me—”

“Lady Waugh is generous to a fault, but don’t let her take the blame for my rudeness, Lady Hanson,” he interjected. Margo’s brows shot up, as did her cousin’s. Quentin cleared his throat. This was not easy to say, but he wouldn’t leave the burden of his shortcomings for Margo to bear alone, no matter how trivial. Eliot served as Margo’s partner in these social charades, when he was in his right mind. Quentin would endeavor to do the same in his absence.

“It was I who was overwhelmed,” he continued, telling a half-lie that revealed more truth than he would have dared a year ago. “I’m afraid I’m possessed of a more nervous disposition than some. I’m simply unused to the attentions of a crowd, even at such a lovely gathering as this. Lady Margo did me a great favor in helping me find a bit of quiet to set myself to rights.”

Sophia looked as she had swallowed a frog. These were not things one spoke of publicly, as Quentin knew all too well. It was nearly worth it just to see her shock at his modest impropriety. 

“I see,” she choked. “I certainly hope you are feeling better now.”

“I am, my lady, thank you.”

“There are others who wished to meet you, but perhaps not. Not now.” she said, brow furrowing as Quentin’s speech continued to sink in. He resisted the urge to smile too widely.

“I think that would be wise, my lady, and it’s so kind of you to be so sympathetic.”

With a few more polite words, Margo’s cousin tittered off to sit with several of her high-born friends, the married women of fashion and society making eyes at Quentin and Margo standing together like a matched pair. He knew they made quite a sight.

The orchestra struck up a new waltz. Quentin saw Penny Adiyodi sawing away at his violin, enthusiastically leading the strings. Not everyone was heartbroken over Eliot’s departure.

Margo caught his eye, and they silently took to the floor. Quentin hadn’t felt so eager to dance since Eliot had last held him in his arms, walking him through the steps and turns in their home parlor. 

“My cousin is a notorious gossip, Q,” Margo warned him in a low voice as they took their position for the waltz. “Half of town will know about your ‘nerves’ by the week’s end.”

Quentin smiled as he bowed with other the gentleman on the floor. “Do you think it might damage my prospects?” he asked her, pretending to be concerned as he set his hand to the small of her back. “I had been _so_ looking forward to entrapping a wife before society learned of my spiritual maladies.”

Margo laughed. “Oh, you are clever. We’ll see only the true romantics at our door now.” 

“Yes, if only the right lover would come along I would be cured in a moment.” 

Margo squeezed his hand as they took their first steps to the rolling melody of the waltz. Quentin, focused on his feet and not entangling himself in Margo’s skirts, looked up to see her watching him fondly. It was strange to think he towered over her more so even than Eliot did him, and yet Quentin still felt safe as they entered the first turn. There was more to feeling warm and secure than merely having a lover who could loom over him, as dearly as he missed the sensation. He wondered if Margo, bold and larger than life, enjoyed the notion as he did, or if she found it smothering. Perhaps in time he could ask her. 

“In all seriousness, are you alright?” Margo asked, squeezing his hand. “I don’t wish to pry, or play act as your sister, but I am invested in your happiness, if you can forgive my coarseness towards you yesterday.”

Quentin thought on her words. He and Margo had developed their own bond, in the months Quentin had spent in Vienna. Certainly, they could be called friends, the warmth he felt for her almost fraternal in nature, surely. 

He guided her around another spinning couple, very nearly colliding. 

“I still...I miss him terribly, Margo,” he replied, voice low as not to be overheard. “But I’m glad to be here. With you. There is nothing to forgive.”

Margo didn’t reply, but she squeezed his hand again. The music swelled, and there was little room for conversation after that. Margo steered them into the flow of the waltz, elegantly pretending to let Quentin lead. 

Quentin’s anxieties calmed as the evening unfolded, champagne was poured generously, and the true personalities of the aloof Viennese aristocracy began to reveal itself. At one point there could be heard the shattering of a wine glass across the ballroom. Margo swore it was due to a marital dispute, though Sophia proclaimed it only an unfortunate accident. Despite her assurances, an hour later some sort of fisticuffs erupted near the dessert table that nearly sent a lady’s lover toppling into priceless china by the hand of her jealous husband. Margo kept an endearingly vicious eye on the proceedings, while Quentin was content to keep to himself and mind that his champagne flute was not refilled too many times.

He found that rather than fester his nerves further, the lover’s dispute only served to calm him as he realized that he and Margo were not the only scandal of the evening, nor anything near the most interesting. Matrons were getting drunk, young men’s hearts were being broken, and few would remember in a week’s time that Quentin had stood arm in arm with Margo for longer than was strictly appropriate for an unmarried man. And to make matters better, either Margo’s presence functioned as a deterrent or Lady Sophia was as efficient a gossip as Margo claimed– whatever the reason, no other young ladies of good family sought to dance with Quentin that night. He had the misfortune of catching the Lady Hoffman’s eye late in the evening, and he had never been so relieved to be looked upon with such a scathing expression of disappointment. It would seem his moment at the center of the matchmaking fervor of Vienna was coming to an end, thank God. 

He and Margo took the carriage ride home laughing, their shared sorrow forgotten for the moment. Fen was happy to greet them at the door once she saw they were in good spirits. 

“A successful evening, I hope?” she asked as Margo untied her fur-lined hood and handed it to her. Quentin waited to hear Margo’s diagnosis as Franz assisted him with his own coat and hat.

“More than, I think,” Margo said, winking at her lady’s maid. “We have much to discuss.”

Fen laughed as she went to ready Margo’s room for bed. Margo slipped off her gloves, balling the likely sweaty silk in her other hand.

“I hope you won’t need too long to recover from that whirlwind, Q,” she said. “Though I saw you were quite moderate with your champagne. Smart man.”

“We can only be in control of so much,” Quentin replied, aiming for lightheartedness. “Thank you for allowing me to accompany you.” Quentin’s voice sounded loud in the quiet hall compared to the echoing ballroom. “And for— well, your assistance. I certainly didn’t intend— that is, I promise I won’t make a habit of it.”

Her smile was soft in the dim candlelight of the late hours. The servants were expecting them to go to bed so that they too could retire for the evening now that their employer had returned home. It was rude to dawdle, but Quentin found Margo’s complexion in this warm light to be… enchanting. 

She stood on her toes, pecking a light kiss to his cheek. He knew his skin must have flared red under the touch of her lips. 

“Not all of your habits must be charming, Quentin. I know many of mine certainly aren’t.”

 _I decided long ago that you will only see the best of me._

Quentin couldn’t help but think of Eliot’s words, months ago now. How different he and Margo were in many ways, and yet the same in others. There was a time to perform, and there was a time for honesty. It was a shame that Margo could be so blunt with Quentin, when Eliot had never felt free to do so. 

“Life would be dull, if we only saw the perfect sides of each other, wouldn’t you say, my lady?”

It was only a flash, but did he see her eyes flick to his lips? It was there and gone, surely only a trick of the candlelight. 

“Indeed,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically low. “I’ll wish you goodnight. We can debrief over breakfast.”

He laughed softly. “Of course.”

She ascended the staircase, leaving Quentin standing at the foot of it, very much alone. Once she disappeared into her room, he made the slow trek to his own bedroom up the stairs and down the hall, closing his door with a soft click of the latch.

He closed his eyes, leaning back on the door, ruminating over his own storm of emotions. Underneath it all was still the sorrow, hopelessness, but it was less of a fiery blaze now. It didn’t consume him, it merely rolled under the surface, a slow moving magma in a once active volcano. At the forefront of his mind was the brown warmth of Margo’s eyes as she had held him in the empty bedroom at Lady’s Hanson’s mansion, the way they had sparkled with happiness and relief as they danced. 

He shook his head, biting his lip as he set to undress for the evening. He had just removed his jacket when there came a soft knock at his door. 

“Yes?”

Silently, Franz ducked into the room and shut the door behind him. He was nervous, his eyes darting around the room.

“I’m sorry, sir, to disturb you. I know you said you wouldn’t need assistance tonight.”

“That’s alright, Franz, what is it?”

Franz released his hands where they had been clasped behind his back. He held a folded letter, sealed with a red stamp of wax. 

Quentin’s heart dropped to his stomach. 

“It came in the night post, addressed to you, sir,” Franz said, holding the letter out for Quentin to take. “I thought it might be wise to give it to you privately.”

Quentin’s mind was curiously blank as he took the letter from Franz’s outstretched hand. He ran a thumb over the red seal. He coughed, a hitch suddenly in his throat. 

“It was wise. Thank you.”

Franz nodded, a frown pulling on the corners of his mouth. He left, and Quentin was alone with the letter. It sat heavy in his hand, weighing on his palm like a stick of dynamite. 

The seal came undone easily, and he sat on the bed as he took in the smeared, messy block of handwriting that approximated something like Eliot’s usually beautiful script. He puzzled over the sloppiness of the note, filled with cross outs and even a few ink blots, when his gaze fell upon the salutation and he froze. 

_My beloved,_

_My bed is far too cold without you in it._

How he had longed to hear such a sentiment again, but to see it written down on a sheet of paper that had traveled across half of Europe, passing through the hands of who knew how many couriers and post masters and inspectors—Eliot must have been drunk. He had been drunk and forgotten himself and if _any_ gaze had set upon this letter besides his own they would know, from those first words, god forbid they read on— 

Quentin’s breath came harsh and gasping, pulling and ripping at his chest. He forced himself to stand, almost running from his room and to the stairs. 

“Franz—“ voice cracking and limbs barely carrying him The footman was almost down the stairs before he caught him, halfway through with putting out the hallway candles. He raised his eyebrows at Quentin’s state, eyes concerned.

“Sir, is everything alright?”

“The seal—“ Quentin whispered frantically, holding out the letter. “I didn’t check, it came apart so easily— didn’t think to— was it broken at all?”

Franz shook his head, eyes wide at Quentin’s tone. “No, it was sealed—“

Quentin grabbed Franz’s shoulder, forcing him to look at him, willing him to understand the gravity of the situation. 

“Would you swear it?”

“I would, sir.” 

Even after freeing Franz from his vice grip, Quentin’s heart pounded against his ribs. 

“I’m sorry.” He shook his head, wondering when the rolling storm of emotion would cease for the night. “I should not have grabbed you so, It’s only that–”

“I understand, sir. You needn’t explain.”

When Quentin met his gaze, he truly did believe that perhaps Franz did understand. He remembered how Eliot had said how carefully he chose his staff, how well-paid they were, and Quentin wondered if it was more than money that fueled Franz’s discretion. 

“Thank you,” Quentin breathed, his heartbeat only just beginning to slow. “Please– you should go to bed, it’s ungodly late. I would be happy to put out the rest of the candles, I– I’m—”

“Don’t be silly, sir,” Franz insisted, voice gentle. “It will just be the work of a moment, then I’ll be off to bed as you say. You should...see to your correspondence.”

Quentin dragged his fingers through his hair, as though the fear was something merely tangled there that he could pull free and toss away. 

“I— alright. Yes. I’m sorry, again, Franz.”

“It’s alright, Herr Coldwater. We all worry about the ones we hold dear.” 

Franz cleared his throat, a bit awkward. 

“I’ll wish you a good night then, sir.” 

“Yes. Goodnight.”

Back in his room, Quentin held the letter to his chest, breathing hard. He looked again at the seal. It was Eliot’s own, he was certain. It had been custom made, a matching gift for man and wife on their first anniversary, Eliot had explained to him. Five slim lines crossed the _W_ like the bars on a music staff. Quentin folded the letter and held it to the light of his bedside candle. He couldn’t make out any of the text through the thick and expensive stationary paper.

Quentin sagged against his mattress in relief. 

_Eliot, my love. So fearful of scandal_ , he thought, unfolding the letter once more with shaking hands. _Are you ill after all, to have forgotten yourself so thoroughly?_

Despite his shock, Quentin still hungered for his lover’s words, all the more so for knowing the letter’s dangerously romantic contents. Drawing a deep breath, he read on: 

_My beloved,_

_My bed is too cold without you in it. I had forgotten what it meant, to sleep alone, but having denied myself the company of both my dearest companions I am reminded that no silken bedclothes can prevent cold feet in a drafty castle._ ~~_You kept me warm, even the dream of you keeps me warm now_ ~~ _But worry not, my love, I shall grow accustomed, and when I return home I will no longer be spoiled on the warmth of lovers, but instead grateful to make myself an imposition on Margo’s nighttime company,_ _~~if I can be forgiven~~. _ _This is the difference between a spouse and a lover, Q. I can set you free, but Margo is doomed to be strangled by my attachment forever. I pray you are gone when I return, that you might be spared a similar fate._

There was something broken in Eliot, Quentin thought as his lover’s words cut like a knife through his breast. Margo would be devastated to see such words put to paper, as if she did not love Eliot with her whole heart. Like they were neither of them human beings but animals in a trap and Eliot their jailor. As if Quentin’s own bed was not cold and empty without the tenderness of his lover to warm it. He read on, nearly sick to know the depth of Eliot’s self-hatred unveiled. 

_Alas, it is my nature to destroy that which starts its life so beautiful. The moment love blossoms I cling, like a child to a flower, but in my naive desperation crush the petals and snap the stem with clumsy fingers until all tender affection has been smothered and only resentment remains._ ~~_If you ever looked upon me in such a way I would die of it, I swear_ ~~ _How I broke my own heart in my youth, chaining ethereal Andromeda— those sweet and fleeting affections meant only to be savored for a short time— to the rock of fidelity until the monster of my true character was revealed. I will not sacrifice your love in such a way, my darling, I swear it. I have taken on the role of Perseus and monster both. You will be liberated, and I pray this tale end in marriage as with the original. It will be my secret grief to bear that it cannot be I who will join you on that sacred altar._

Quentin might laugh at the flowery prose that poured forth from Eliot’s drunken pen, if beneath his heavy metaphor and slurred classical reference there did not shine through a glimmer of pain so deep as to bring him to tears. Who, Quentin wondered as he stroked his thumb tenderly over the clumsy text, had so utterly failed to love Eliot as he deserved? What man had made him feel that his affections were worth only temporary indulgence, or that the warmth, the sweetness, the _blessing_ of Eliot’s love were some kind of burden? Quentin could not imagine such a beast.

_You must know how dearly I wish to see you a husband and a father, to see the faces of your children. Oh my darling, I will love them with my whole heart, as though they were my own flesh and blood. Have no fear of my bitterness, in this matter or any other, for every joy to be had in your life will be a balm to my grief. You are my last and only lover. I live loving you. I will die loving you._

The paper became quite smudged at that point, and Quentin struggled to discern the last few lines. His own tears made the reading even more difficult.

_All I dare to ask is that when you have found another more worthy of your heart you will leave me the clasp of your warm friendship. I beg you, let me see your smile, know your children, hear your music. This, already a burden, I know, will be the boundary of my selfishness._

_I am your humble, obedient servant forever more,_

_Eliot_

Quentin held the letter away from his chest, lest his falling tears hit the paper and damage the already haphazard words. He should not be so careful, he knew. He should burn it, toss it into the low fire in the grate below his bedroom mantle; bury it beneath the embers and let the flames take away the danger that such explicitly damning words could bring them. Bring Eliot. 

He should protect Eliot. 

Instead, he wiped his tears on his shirtsleeve, so that his cheeks were dry when he pulled the paper to his lips and kissed his beloved’s signature. 

“I will wait for you, my love,” he whispered to the ether. “I will be here, and when you return, you will see that I am yours.” 

Quentin rose to splash some water on his face and dress for bed. His heart was pained, but also at peace. Eliot loved him. He loved him above any other man, and it was only some ghost from his past that made him believe Quentin could not love him just as fiercely in return. 

This Quentin could weather. He curled in bed and read Eliot’s words again, sifting through the mistakes, and smudges, and the cruelty turned inward, that he might look upon the words of love nestled like roses among briars. He read and reread until his candle sputtered out.

He didn’t burn the letter. 

~ 

Quentin woke to a quiet house and with a strangely clear mind. The letter sat on the pillow, and he straightened his rumpled evening wear before taking it in hand and exiting his room. The halls were still as he padded softly in his bare feet down the stairs and towards the tightly closed door of Eliot’s study. 

He hadn’t been inside Eliot’s study in two weeks, not since the servants had cleaned and shut the door behind them. He had asked Franz to retrieve his things and began composing at the parlor piano. It wasn’t as if the rest of the house held no feeling of Eliot’s presence, Quentin bedroom was especially saturated in it, but there was something about the study. It had been where Eliot created his music, where they had spent most of their time together, where Quentin had told him of his dreams and where Eliot had used them against him in order to leave. 

Taking hold of the doorknob, he twisted it slowly and entered, stepping softly into the small room. He reached for the matches he knew to be sitting on the corner of the desk, striking one and lighting a candle. Once illuminated in soft light, he took in the small sprawl. 

It was just as they had left it, even with Eliot’s jacket draped over his desk chair. Quentin paid it no mind, instead circling around to the piano. He set the letter on the stand, and took a seat on the bench. 

The rising sun revealed what candlelight had obscured the night before. Scrawled in the margins of the letter, next to Eliot’s words of heartbreak, was music. _Eliot’s_ music. Lopsided staves and sloppily realized noteheads, but it was music, unmistakably so, from Eliot’s mind. Quentin plunked out the small snatches of melody with a tender touch to the keys, letting the pitches wrap him in a soft embrace. The low notes were all in a tenor voice, and Quentin could briefly imagine it was Eliot humming absently as he went about his morning tasks. 

Eliot had sent him music. Quentin would return the favor. 

He cut himself a fresh sheet of manuscript paper, the blank lines filling quickly with music. He began with a sweeping, quick bass line, overlaid with a descending melody realized in octaves in the right hand. His fingers strained to play the virtuosic music, but all the same it poured from his mind like a waterfall, his own hand smearing the ink on the page as he struggled to write quick enough. 

Soon it was late morning, and then early afternoon, the light warm through the curtains. He finished a page by ten o’clock, half of the first movement by noon. It was music of pain, but also of love, elation, of the heights of ecstasy love took you toward only to be plunged into the depths of despair. It was hopeful. 

It was Eliot, far from them, but loving them all the same. 

“Q,” came Margo’s muffled voice through the door, around lunch time. There was a creak of hinges, and she poked her head inside. “Are you alright? You didn’t come to breakfast.”

Quentin turned, seeing the width of his smile in Margo’s shocked expression. 

“I’m going to bring him home, Margo,” he said. “He loves us, and I–” he laughed in spite of himself. “I had doubted it but I know now.”

“You’ve had word from him.” 

Quentin passed her the letter. “On the evening post last night,” he said. “It’s painful to read, I will warn you—”

Margo’s frown was deep set as she scanned the first few lines. “It’s nothing I didn’t already suspect of him,” she said, voice soft as she sat beside Quentin on the bench. “How blind our beloved is.”

“Eliot has had too many cruel teachers ,” Quentin said. “He has carried the wrong lessons in his heart. You were right, he cannot be chased. But when he returns, I— we will be _here_. That will be his proof, and he will finally learn.” 

Margo offered him a wry smile, even as she stroked her own thumb tenderly over Eliot’s messy signature. 

“Planning a siege, General Q?” she asked. 

Quentin returned the smile. “A quiet one. And only if you will allow me to continue to impose upon your company.” 

Margo folded the letter and set it aside. It was comforting, having her knee pressed against his on the narrow bench, even if it was slightly comical with the volume of her skirts. Only just. 

“As if you could possibly endure Eliot’s foolishness without me,” she declared, tucking her hand into Quentin’s elbow.

“Now, play us your battle hymn-in-progress.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We hope you share your thoughts on our lovers' journey! All comments are treasured as dearly as Quentin treasures Eliot's letter.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, all! Here we have a lengthy update for your reading pleasure. What has our favorite concert pianist been up to? Things appear dire indeed...

_Pest, Hungary  
_ _Late February, 1837_

The concert had been long. He played his second rhapsody and the audience begged him for an encore, leaping to their feet and shouting their joy. He indulged them, twice. Once with his much-loved _Consolation_ and another with an improvised setting of a Magyar folk song. 

Many maidens lost their gloves and scarves to the trampling of the crowd in their desperation to fling him a token of their affection. The flowers left onstage would need to be gathered and discarded, used for fertilizer in the spring. Many left the hall that night with smiles as wide as their ears, shouting in the streets: 

_Eliot Waugh, our native son! What a night that has been indeed!_

Eliot left the concert hall through the back entrance. He walked three blocks with his scarf covering half of his face. Todd had left that morning to visit relatives outside of town, and so Eliot entered the dark apartment completely and utterly alone. 

And drank. 

The love of one’s country could never compare to the love of a man, nor the pain of leaving him, no matter how noble the reason. 

Later, he wouldn’t be able to recall how the pen had appeared in his hand. How he had even stumbled to his desk and opened his writing case. He had contemplated love, and loss, and the possibility of forgiveness.

 _My beloved,_ he began, his lips dry and cracked under the bite of his own teeth. He wrote, and wrote, his eyes dripping with tears and his shoulders heaving with sobs. His love– his _loves_ – 

He dropped the letter in the post box outside of the apartment before sane thought could return to him. In the morning, he raced from the house with barely a shoe on his feet, only to find it completely empty and the letter already gone. 

Eliot spend the next weeks in a state of dread, half that his scandalous words would reach Quentin, and half that they wouldn’t.

* * *

_The Hungarian countryside  
_ _March, 1837_

The fire flickered in the hearth, barely clinging to life, and Eliot made no moves to stoke it. It was just as well, to be cold while one sat alone. 

He had finished performing a small evening concert to a very ancient gathering of Hungarian aristocracy only an hour ago. The drafty old castle held a multitude of history and secrets, no doubt, but its inhabitants were rapidly aging and uninterested in merriment into the late hours. They had retired shortly after the performance, along with the butler, who had kindly left the half-full bottle of claret with Eliot upon request. 

He glared it now, knowing that its rapidly disappearing contents would not be enough to help him sleep that night. 

Todd tapped him on the shoulder, a letter in his white-gloved hand. Eliot sat up, his posture having suffered terribly in his solitude. 

“Good god, you’re still up?” Eliot asked. 

Todd nodded curtly. “Indeed. This arrived for you earlier, sir, while you were performing.”

Todd had been more than a little sour that evening, and Eliot couldn’t blame him. The estate had very little staff, and Todd had been coerced into playing footman for the evening, donning a livery far below his station. Still, Todd would die before succumbing to rudeness. 

Eliot reached for the letter, but Todd hesitated. 

“I’m afraid it’s not from Lady Margo, or Herr Coldwater.”

Eliot furrowed his brow. “I should think not. Why would they wish to speak to me?”

Todd pursed his lips. “Sir–”

“Just let me have it, Todd.”

He did, and despite his warning Eliot’s heart sank as he gazed upon the text, neither Margo’s elegant finishing school script nor Quentin’s cramped academic’s handwriting.

“Thank you.”

Todd nodded, and wandered around the room to pick up glasses from the brief after-dinner drinks the party had indulged in, and Eliot opened the letter with a swipe of an abandoned butter knife. 

It was from Penny, the only person who had given his blessing to Eliot’s sudden departure from Vienna. Without him in the way, Penny took the top spot among the court musicians. Eliot could sense his colleague’s newfound arrogance in the overall dryness of the letter, his prose mostly consisting of court affairs and the gossip of the moment in Vienna’s music scene. As if Eliot would care. Eliot _should_ care, should be concerned that his profession was in jeopardy, but he only skimmed, ready to toss the letter to the side and continue drinking until a few words near the end of the page caught his eye.

... _I had the honor of performing at Lady Hanson’s winter ball– a rather tedious event, mostly waltzes, you know how it is– but I was surprised to see Lady Waugh there, escorted by your student. What was his name again? I have not the slightest idea, though I suppose I should. It’s not as if I didn’t have to hear about that damned concerto for months after the performance. Now I must play servant to him amongst the aristocracy? You ask too much, my friend. Still, I have to allow that he is brave, dancing and kissing your wife’s hand in front of God’s chosen rulers. I’m sure you’ve already heard of it from them and had a good laugh about it all, but you know how people starve for gossip in Vienna…_

Eliot lowered the letter, resting his hand on his knee. Of course, Sophia’s winter ball was a yearly tradition. He had…Eliot shook his head. He had _forgotten_ about it, such a sacred day on the calendar marked between himself and Margo. They had been the honored guests for the last two years, ever since their scandalous marriage. Margo always wore something daring and Eliot would premiere a new composition– and they would rule the dance floor as king and queen until the small hours of the morning. 

He hung his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Quentin and Margo attended the ball together,” Eliot said, glancing over at where Todd balanced the tray of glasses in his hand. “Lady Hanson’s winter ball.”

Todd stopped, brow furrowing.

“Truly, sir?”

Eliot nodded. “I was as surprised myself to hear it.” He swallowed the hard lump in his throat. “I suppose it isn’t entirely inappropriate. Afterall, I imagine they look rather well together.”

Todd didn’t reply. 

“They are of similar height, is all I mean,” Eliot clarified, waving the hand that held the letter. “Like a matched pair. Margo must delight in having a dance partner that doesn’t tower over her, wouldn’t you say?”

“I… I wouldn’t know, sir.”

Eliot laughed, a humorless sound. “No need to be shy, Todd, my wife has no requirement to remain loyal to me. God knows, I haven't given her the same courtesy. And Quentin…” The lump returned, choking off whatever he was about to say. 

Todd lowered his tray to the side table. The glasses clinked together, breaking the silence. 

“I think that’s enough wine for tonight, sir. You know what happened last time.”

Eliot snorted, possessively clinging to the glass in his hand. “No need to worry, Todd, my need for a governess passed long ago. And I haven’t even my writing case here to embarrass myself via the post.” He gentled his tone. “You should get some rest.”

Todd fidgeted a bit, his mouth a thin line.

“I will read this letter once more.” Eliot held up the disappointing stationary. “And then will go straight to bed. I won’t even finish my wine.”

It was a lie, of course, but lying made people so much more comfortable with him. Especially these days. 

“Only this once, sir,” Todd said, dipping his head and taking his tray out of the room without a ‘good night.’ 

Eliot waited for him to leave, then refilled his glass.   


* * *

_Strasbourg, France  
_ _March, 1837_

April brought rain. The once firm and snow-packed roads melted into sodden mud designed by God to swallow the wheels of their carriage whole. Eliot and Todd had helped to free the blasted thing right alongside the groom, and they arrived in Strasbourg, dirty, wet, and miserable. Given the omens of the day Eliot did not expect good news when he was met by the kind butler of the house after he had dried off and changed. 

“This was sent ahead for you, sir, forward from Pest.” the butler informed him, offering a letter with familiar cramped academic’s handwriting. 

Eliot’s heart had dropped to his stomach. Was this to be a change in fate, or would the day’s trend of misfortune continue? 

He didn’t dare read it until he was completely alone, the plain paper illuminated only by the light of one candle. It had been closed with the red wax Eliot knew sat on his desk in Vienna and stamped with Quentin’s modest seal. It had belonged to Quentin’s father, a scripted C intertwined with leaf-laden vines. Part of his meager inheritance, Quentin had said, only barely rescued from his mother’s greedy hands.

He opened it with shaking hands. 

_To my dearest friend,_

The salutation alone made Eliot’s knees buckle. He sat on a hard kitchen bench, tears welling up in his tired eyes. 

_You asked me to write to you of your home, to keep your abreast of the events in Vienna. I am both pleased and bored to inform you that everything is much the same. The city misses you, and you are asked after often. It would seem that there is a shortage of interesting dinner guests to be had in the city, and more than once you are requested as a dance partner at functions where you are obviously not present. Speaking of the social scene, I attended Lady Sophia’s winter ball, and only made a trifle of an embarrassment out of myself without you there to make me appear brighter and more interesting than I have any right to. Your lady wife permitted me to escort her, and she insists that I do not apologize for any small scandal we may have caused in doing so. As to the weather, it has been agreeable, only slightly warmer that winter should be._

For a moment, Eliot’s heart sank. Quentin’s words were stale, more a letter directed to an acquaintance of little importance, detached as they were from the loving poet Eliot had granted his heart. Before reading on, he accepted that any right he once had to that poetry had since expired, and that he better learn to live with what he was granted now. 

And then… 

_I face a great conundrum, my dear friend. You know that there is one who possesses my heart, my beloved, to whom I would give my only lifelong vow if they would permit it. And yet, though our mutual affection is as assured as frost in January, this love denies me the joy of their presence, seeking a martyr’s laurel instead of a lover’s bouquet. You must understand how deeply I am troubled by this._

_My lover writes (only when drink frees their words, another troubling matter) and in their sentiments live a great sadness, so much so that my heart aches and burns just to think of it. Without my knowledge or consent, my dearest companion has decided that they are undeserving of me, that they must live a life of eternal loneliness in penance for the sin of asking to be loved. Between their words of poetry— each phrase a treasure, and my evidence that my beloved has not truly turned their face away from me— their self-effacing heartbreak would cut me to ribbons. It is fortunate for us both— that is to say, my lover and I— that I am not so easily discouraged, and my feelings of love, longing, and tender affection remain unchanged._

The tears tracked openly down Eliot’s face. Quentin’s hand was steady and true, the paper clean of errors. He could see his, sitting by the light of one candle, carefully composing a letter so cloaked in metaphor so as to make his feelings known, whatever the cost. 

_What shall I say to my beloved? Only you, my dearest counsel, can calm the storm that is my heart. I have never seen the sea, but even now it churns and rolls within me like a great and unending hurricane. I know not what chart I should course, as every direction points to my darling’s absence. Shall I tell them that I yearn for them, as the sun yearns for the moon though they are damned to be separated? Too dark, yes, I agree. Would you rather I tell them to come home, so that I can look upon them and after a sound scolding assure them of my love? I say to you my friend, vulgar though it may be, that if I could hold my darling in my arms this moment I would labor greatly to ensure the thought of further separations were stricken from their mind forever. Perhaps I have not had such powers with lovers past, but this one, this sublime melody who stirs my soul, summons such acts of great passion from me._

_But I digress. For now I will simply tell them this, which is perhaps what my beloved needs to hear most of all: I am_ here _, stalwart as the very same sea that soaks me down to the bones, to the very essence of my soul– a percussive and all-consuming storm, but timeless. I shall not leave as long as my beloved would keep me. Yes, I believe those words will do nicely, even if the metaphor requires work._

Eliot laughed, the sound more of a wet sob. How he ached to see Quentin’s wry grin, to hear his dry and quiet wit once more. How he had probably smiled as he wrote the joke, had he been tearful as well?

_I wait, as always, for the comfort of your affectionate counsel, and for your safe return to your home here in Vienna._

_It is my honor to be your faithful and obedient servant,_

_Quentin_

At the bottom of the letter, written in tiny script so as to not attract attention, was a post-script. 

_Please don’t write to me drunk again. If not for your own sake or mine, then for Margo’s._

Eliot’s stomach dropped to his shoes, properly chastised. Brought back to the desperation of that night, the same desperation rattled his bones now. Only the deepest rupturing of his heart could cause him to act so recklessly, and he shuddered to think what might have happened if that letter had fallen into the wrong hands. Himself, he cared little about, but Quentin? And Margo? What would become of them, shamed and outcast without him a city that would sooner see you hang than– 

He swallowed, stowing his thoughts along with the letter in his jacket pocket. Even shrouded in metaphor, he would not handle Quentin’s correspondence with the recklessness he had granted his own. He would keep his letters close to his heart, so that the calvary would sooner be compelled to shoot him than find themselves able to take them from him. 

So committed, Eliot stepped into the small dressing room he had been afforded, seeking his better gloves for the formal dinner he was expected at shortly. Beside his trunk, still unpacked, stood Todd with a letter of his own in his hands. Rarely had Eliot seen such an expression of consternation on his face as he took in the text as though it were a difficult puzzle. 

“I hope it isn’t ill news, Todd.” 

Eliot’s butler started, as though he hadn’t heard him enter. Stranger still. 

“Oh! Forgive me, sir,” Todd said, embarrassed as he folded the letter away. “I thought you might be longer with your own correspondence.” 

Eliot waved him off. “It’s no trouble, I’m only looking for my white gloves.” 

“Of course, I have them just here—” 

Todd rifled through Eliot’s trunk— kept orderly as an army barracks— but his frown lingered. 

“Is all well at home?” Eliot asked, toeing their carefully constructed line of decorum. 

“I—yes,” Todd replied, after a pause. “My sister only wrote...well. It was a dark winter, and a bit of a cold went through the house. My mother is still abed with it, apparently.” 

“Ah, well, the harsher seasons can bring all manner of small maladies.” Eliot’s words of comfort felt stale in his mouth. “I’m sure the warmth of spring will do wonders, and you’ll hear better news soon.” 

“Of course,” Todd agreed, handing Eliot the gloves he had been seeking. “Only—” 

Eliot looked up, tugging the first glove onto his hand.

“Todd?” 

His butler pursed his lips, as if propriety held them shut. After a sigh he continued. 

“Nothing sir. Only that it was an expensive post, if it truly is nothing serious.” 

Eliot had long forgotten the notion of news being too trivial for the expense of sending it, but there had been a time in his life when a few extra pennies for the post would have been too dear. Todd’s brother in law was a baker of modest success, if Eliot recalled, but after a winter with illness in the family...

“If there’s an issue of— of money, or doctors,” he began, awkward with his old friend as always over their difference in station. “I hope your sister would know that Margo and I—”

Todd’s frown lessened slightly. “You’re too generous, sir,” he said, pulling a brush from the trunk and using it to remove some invisible lint from Eliot’s jacket shoulders. “And my sister too pragmatic not to take advantage, despite her husband’s pride. She writes that she’s already had tea with Frau Schiller in recent weeks.”

“And our dear cook has likely already handled the rest,” Eliot agreed. “Good.” 

“Indeed sir. Will you need anything else?” 

Eliot thought of the letter tucked against his breast, and Todd’s sister visiting the townhouse. Had she seen Quentin, or Margo? Even a glimpse to know they were well— that Quentin was still _there_ — a single word would be a balm to his heart. 

Yet these were things that Eliot did not deserve. 

“No, thank you. I’m off to dinner, and I’m sure an impromptu performance.” 

“Then I wish you luck, as always, sir.” 

“Thank you, Todd.”

* * *

_Across Europe to England, and back again  
_ _April, 1837_

Quentin’s letters came to him quicker than Eliot was able to read them— a flock of birds arriving creased and out of any discernible order. It would seem that his dearest love didn’t require an answer from Eliot for inspiration or material, his letters often long and thick, and not always pertaining to their present angst.

_Forgive me, that my first letter was only my selfish musings over my beloved, for you had asked for news from home, and I am at your service to give it._

They waited for Eliot in each inn and aristocrat’s house he made berth, perched on his desk in rented apartments or presented to him by a serious butler when he was hosted by local bourgeoisie. After a treacherous voyage across the English channel three waited for him upon his arrival in London, forwarded from different locations and all wildly unrelated. His love was a poet, but more often than not his letters resembled his nervous patterns of speech. Stuttering, rambling, and backtracking each thought before its full formation could be made known. 

_I find myself thinking of your travels. I traveled very little as a boy, excepting the instance when my mother became cross with my father and took me on a wild expedition to the mountainside to stay with her childhood friend Amelia. But– discounting that, the only time I left home was to study with Herr Reynard. I don’t think we would disagree to say that that was not one of my finer ideas, even though as a boy I had little control over the matter in reality. You however, have been everywhere. I wish I had asked you more about your travels, your encounters with royalty, and I realize now how little each of us has talked about our pasts. Well, perhaps I have not been so secretive, but discretion and propriety have never been my strong suits. I fear sometimes that I have told you too much– divested an abundance of thoughts and emotions so tangled that you would become exhausted in any attempt to untangle them. But I digress–_

Such unfocused and manic prose made Eliot purse his lips and grind his teeth with worry. Quentin spoke very little about music, and he wondered if he was working. 

Other times, Quentin seemed normal, detached even, as if he were keeping a record of amusing anecdotes and not writing to his estranged lover. Even such dry record keeping made Eliot’s heart beat a mile a minute in his chest, especially when Quentin sought to make him laugh. 

_I write this under a cloak of darkness so as to not embarrass myself or your dear staff, but I fear I have mortified young Franz beyond what I thought previously possible. He took the silver cufflinks from my bureau to send them out for polishing, as a good valet should do, but it was on this night that I needed them for a salon performance. I did not think much of it, and instead used my everyday brass pair. When Franz saw me so humbly bedecked for an evening out with your Lady wife, I thought he would put himself at my feet to beg for forgiveness. Even now, I laugh to myself thinking of his utter horror. I pray that you share in my mirth, and not think me mean spirited._

Indeed, Eliot did laugh, a genuine smile stretching across his face. Who could be meaner than he and Margo, and how delighted they had been to see that Quentin was not so innocent as his gentle demeanor implied? With a heavy heart, Eliot remembered their treasured breakfast conversations. It had been a joy to start his day with laughter and love. 

Only rarely did Quentin refer to themselves as they truly were, layered beneath metaphor and disguise like a refugee fleeing their homeland. 

_My beloved has forsaken me. I had thought that if I held fast, if I only made myself known to them, that they would return to me. I have not seen them for months, and haven’t even received word to calm my aching heart. I remain faithful, and steadfast, but I admit my heart breaks fresh each day the post arrives without a letter bearing their beloved seal._

It wasn’t as if Eliot hadn’t tried responding. He left a trail of crumpled paper wherever he went. Failed poetry in Lyon, stilted prose in Manchester, his trip back across the channel themed with the cutting of fresh paper. Each attempt ended in failure, and Quentin’s letters kept arriving, adding to his guilt. 

When Quentin wrote of Margo, Eliot’s heartbreak only doubled:

_I know that you must be intimately familiar with the pain I feel in the absence of my beloved, being separated as you are from your dear lady wife. She misses you. I see it in the perfunctory way she hosts guests in the parlor, in the absence of the normal sparkle in her eye during our breakfast conversations. She misses a vital part of herself, as I do. She declined my offer to include a message from her in this letter, insisting that you were much too busy for dreary messages from a Viennese housewife. I’m sure she would delight in you proving her wrong._

Unbeknownst to Quentin, Eliot _had_ written to Margo. Ten letters worth of gossip, intrigue, politics, and European news from across the continent weighed down his shoulder bag, all complete, and completely _unsent_. He wished to converse easily with his wife as they had for the past three years, their bond as steadfast as the wood and brick of their beloved townhouse. He would tell her of his presentation to England’s newest queen, a young girl of eighteen that barely reached Eliot’s chest in height and styled herself as Victoria. He would tell her how the English often scowled at his “coarse” accent and how the French ladies wore their hair and promise to bring her some of the newest fabric samples for her perusal.

It was the first time they had been parted since the beginning of their marriage, and he felt her absence like a hole torn his very soul. The solid slab of her closed door still lingered in his memory, her refusal to see him on the morning of his departure a sliver of ice in his heart. He had half thought—perhaps it had been unchristian of him—that Margo would be relieved at the end of Eliot’s affair. That no amount of Eliot’s happiness could outweigh the risk—the insult—of Quentin’s presence in the very home that they had built together.

Whatever conviction he still held regarding his departure, his misjudgment of Margo’s response haunted him. He had hoped for—been wholly reliant on, if he were being honest—the promise of Margo’s enduring companionship to see him through his heartbreak once Quentin finally came to his senses. Now he wondered if he would ever again be allowed the tender intimacies of his marriage bed, or if his selfishness had finally left his wife’s fiery heart cold. 

The despair of such a thought left Eliot reaching for his flask. The burn of whiskey, at least, still warmed him.

* * *

_Paris, France  
_ _May, 1837_

Eliot was in Paradise. The bed beneath him was soft, the sheets smooth and cool against his bare skin, and in his arms, he held his whole world. 

_So eager for us, Eliot_ , Quentin breathed, shocked as always at the depth of Eliot’s longing, the depravity of his hunger. He squirmed in Eliot’s arms, always _always_ matching his desire, then miraculously exceeding it.

 _As he should be,_ declared Margo, petting through the hair on Eliot’s chest with a gleaming grin. _We are a delight, and he is lucky to have us._

Eliot couldn’t speak, he could only ache– because of course, she was correct. He pulled his wife close, and his lover closer— so, so grateful— until they were one body entwined in their pure white bedclothes. Quentin’s kiss took the shape of a smile against his lips. Margo’s fingers knit with his own, and he pressed her hand dearly against his heart. Every breath was pleasure. Every touch was tenderness. Eliot could not even summon the memory of hunger or thirst, or the cold of a bitter chill. Love was his sustenance, his nectar, the blood in his veins and the warmth of the sun upon his face. 

Somewhere, Quentin laughed, bright and carefree, and Margo followed. It was music. They sang to him, low and sweet, the resolution of their harmonies all the more beautiful for their moments of dissonance. It was the chorus of the heavenly spheres, Eliot was certain. He closed his eyes to listen, to dream— 

— and he woke with a start, his forehead resting against something unforgivingly hard and a metallic clatter in his ear.

Eliot coughed, sitting up, the vision of his small bedroom swimming in front of his eyes. His heart beat a heavy tempo, sluggish from the imbibement of too much alcohol the night before. He had fallen asleep at his desk, his hand inches away from a half-full wine glass, and in startling awake he had knocked it over. Eliot barely managed to shove his papers out of the way of the spreading red stain, and his heart was in his throat as he snatched a book of poetry—Quentin’s Christmas gift to him— from the edge of the deluge. Eliot sank back into his chair with a grimace. The wine had only kissed the edge of the back binding, but it glared at him regardless like a bleeding gash. 

Eliot hissed as a hangover headache struck him. Pinching his eyes closed, he pushed his hair back from his forehead and set the book aside, far from the spilled wine. He should be used to such morning agonies by now.

He didn’t look up when the door opened with a creak. Todd’s footsteps were soft against the rug. 

“Let me be, Todd,” he pleaded.

“I’m afraid I can’t, sir,” his butler replied, his concerned hands coming to rest on Eliot’s shoulders. “You have prior engagements that require attending to today.”

Eliot groaned as Todd started to help him out of his rumpled performance attire. The jacket came first, peeled off like a bandage stuck to an old wound. Todd snapped it hard in the air to try and get some of the wrinkles out from Eliot’s impromptu slumber at his desk. 

They had arrived in Paris early afternoon the day before, with barely enough time to unpack and change for Eliot’s first concert alongside Julia Wicker. Without any time for respite in between, he had been swept along to the salon of some Paris socialite by several admirers, a veritable marionette suspended from many strings. He laughed, he charmed, he played the piano well into the night– and then he stumbled back to his apartment close to midnight, uncorking another bottle of wine and sitting quite alone at the desk, giving himself full license to drink until he reached oblivion. 

It was a decision he paid for dearly now, as Todd threw open the curtains and revealed a beam of sunlight bright enough to blind him. 

“Mercy, I beg of you,” Eliot entreated as he covered his eyes. 

Todd ignored him, moving to the second window to give it the same treatment. “You’re having tea with Herr Reynard at noon, and it’s already eleven.” 

Eliot sighed as he pulled his wrinkled shirt over his head, tossing it to the floor. Todd poured water into a basin for him to splash his face. 

“I thought my meeting was with Julia herself,” Eliot mumbled, drying his face with a clean towel and straightening, able to open his eyes without the shooting pain now. 

“Evidently not.” Todd handed him a clean shirt. “Herr Reynard sent word this morning that he would like to be at the meeting as well. For business purposes.”

Eliot furrowed his brow, annoyed. “So you are opening my correspondence now as well?”

Todd pursed his lips, eyes flashing. “He sent a servant boy with a verbal message, but as you are content to sleep well beyond the socially acceptable hour, I may start monitoring your letters, should we miss anything important.”

Eliot held his valet’s gaze for but a moment, meeting the hard dare in his eyes. Three months alone on the road had done been as much a challenge for Todd as it had been for Eliot. They had shared cramped apartments and the intimacy of reduced circumstances that often came with touring, Eliot not taking as much care in the quality of his lodgings in Margo’s absence. Coupled with Eliot’s drinking and social habits, it was a wonder Todd could look at him at all. 

“I shouldn’t have assumed.” Eliot pulled the shirt over his head and began to do up the buttons. “Alas, I had hoped to meet Wicker on her own, but I suppose this is better. Make all necessary uncomfortable introductions all at once.”

“Indeed, sir,” Todd agreed, the earlier bite to his tone now undetectable. “Now, as for your performance attire tonight…”

Eliot let his mind drift as Todd laid out some suggestions, lighting a cigarette and sitting on the edge of the bed. Decisions about attire was a safe subject for them, and Todd was never looking for a fight in earnest. There had been a shadow to his butler’s gaze since Strasbourg and the news of his mother’s declining health. It was yet another addition to Eliot’s long string of curses that he had dragged his oldest companion to the far ends of Europe in the one moment he might be needed most at home. If Todd spoke sharply to him now and again it was no less than he deserved for his selfishness. 

Eliot blew a stream of smoke to the side, his head slowly clearing as he turned his thoughts to the events of the evening before. He had hardly been able to greet the great Fraulein Wicker before she was due onstage, she the first act of the performance while him the second. He watched backstage as she played a set of variations, light and brilliant in style, along with a Clementi sonata. All expertly done, the interpretation fresh and lively for the Paris audience, but Eliot couldn’t help but feel that it was all slightly out of date. The flashy style was suited more for child prodigies, without any sign of the new romantic style that Quentin and other young composers were exploring. It was all very accomplished, but held little in the way of emotional exploration. Eliot knew he had been guilty of it in his youth, but he and Wicker both were grown now, surely she would want to deepen her musical exploration.

“... Finished with your black and white checked cravat, if you are feeling bold tonight, sir. And you’ve had another letter from Herr Coldwater. I’ve left it on the desk for you.” 

Eliot’s heart sank. Hope, dread, ecstatic happiness– word from home brought a myriad of emotions.

“I swear I didn’t open that one,” Todd said with a wry smile. 

Eliot snorted, tapping the ashes of his cigarette onto the plate on his bedside table. From the corner of his eye he watched Todd’s face fall as he turned to gather Eliot’s laundry. 

“I’ll open it later.”

“As you wish, sir.”

They lapsed into silence. Eliot finished his cigarette and continued dressing, first his trousers, then this waistcoast. He managed to plumb the depths of his soul for an unselfish thought and asked:

“Have you had any post, Todd?” 

“Sir?” 

Eliot cleared his throat. “That is to say, have you heard any more on your mother’s health?” 

Todd’s surprise at Eliot’s inquiry was enough to shame him thoroughly. 

“I—no.” His glance flicked away as he folded Eliot’s discarded shirt over his arm. “I had a letter in London, but circumstances were much the same. I’m certain my sister will reach me here if...well. If there is news. It helps that she is in Vienna now, instead of alone in our old village, able to be cared for by my sister and her husband. Thanks to you, sir.”

Eliot rattled his brain for the sparse details Todd had shared, weeks upon weeks ago now. If things were unchanged that hardly boded well. 

“Todd,” he began, “What if— that is, if you thought it best—”

“Sir?” Todd’s brow was furrowed, and he looked oddly displeased. Eliot grimaced, his head still pounding. 

“I’m trying to ask—” Eliot continued doggedly, looking down at the buttons of his waistcoat, as if it required every ounce of his conversation to line up the mother of pearl buttons with the appropriate holes. “I’m trying to ask If you might be needed at home.” 

Todd’s mouth was a tight line line as he pointedly picked up an empty wine bottle and Eliot’s discarded glass from the desk. 

“I know where I’m needed,” he said quietly. 

“Todd—”

“My mother’s health is in God’s hands, and I trust him with it,” Todd continued, voice hard. “After the last two months I can’t say the same for you, sir.” 

Eliot had no reply. He surveyed his reflection in the square mirror above his dresser as he tied his cravat. His suit was as aristocratic as ever, but the shadows under his eyes were deep enough to be called craters. His hair too was without its usual raven luster, no doubt suffering for the lack Margo’s myriad of tonics. Eliot felt a rush of shame that no bespoke suit could offset. Was this the famous Eliot Waugh, who had swept Quentin Coldwater off his feet? The husband of Lady Margaret Hanson? His damned _valet_ didn’t trust him not to drink himself to death the minute he was left alone, and at the moment Eliot couldn’t muster the indignation necessary to disagree with his assessment. 

Todd held last night’s velvet jacket over his arm, placid again having spoken his piece. “Will you be needing anything else?”

Eliot shook his head. “No, Todd. I should be back before five to change.”

“I’ll have this ready by then.”

“Very good. I’m off now.”

“So early, sir?”

Eliot tucked his watch into his front pocket. “Yes. I think it’s always better to arrive early, in these situations.”

Eliot found his dark green jacket and top hat, leaving the small apartment for the warm Paris streets. He followed the brief directions the Wicker’s manservant had given him the evening before, arriving at a modestly sized townhouse three blocks away from his own apartment. He was received by the same manservant and shown to the drawing room to wait. 

He looked around the sitting room, remembering that the Wicker’s were in just as much of uprooted circumstances as he, yet the room was furnished well, reminding him of the townhouse Margo and he had leased in Leipzig. 

The door opened a few moments later unannounced, revealing a woman of middling height in a dark red and black plaid gown. She wore her brown hair in a sensible chignon at the back of her head without much adornment otherwise. Her face was serious, with a slight frown pulling at the corner of her lips. 

“Herr Waugh,” she said, politely bowing. “Thank you for stopping by.”

Eliot blinked, scrambling to his feet to bow in return. “Good morning, Fraulein. Thank you for receiving me. I apologize, I didn’t recognize you away from the piano.”

“They said you were charming,” she said, unsmiling. “Please, sit.”

Eliot scrambled to do so, planting himself on the edge of the sofa as Julia took her place in the chair. 

“Lovely weather, today,” said Eliot, lamely. 

“Indeed. Spring.”

Eliot pursed his lips, at a loss for how to keep the conversation going when a maid entered with the tea tray, setting it on the table and pouring them each a cup. 

“Thank you, Kady,” Julia said, smiling at her, a warm expression in contrast with the cold way she had received Eliot. The maid nodded and dipped a curtsy before silently leaving them to their conversation. 

Eliot cleared his throat, taking the cup in hand. “I apologize I was not able to converse with you further last night, I was swept along by some potential patrons, and well– you know how that goes.”

She only nodded, adding a lump of sugar to her tea. Her hands were large, wide at the palms, and her fingers strong but not too long, like Quentin’s. Perfect hands for the piano.

“I admit,” he started, trying to inject some levity in the awkward scene, “I thought perhaps I had the pleasure of meeting your aunt when you first entered the room, seeing you out of your performance attire.”

Julia looked up, color flaring up in her cheeks. 

“Shall I comment on your appearance next, Herr Waugh?”

Eliot set his cup down, immediately regretting his words. “I assure you, Fraulein, I only meant–”

“I know exactly what it is you meant. It is true that I must affect a certain visage while performing, but we are not all so fortunate to have been born tall, dashing, and _male.”_

Eliot’s mouth hung open stupidly. 

“I see Q hasn’t spared any of my private details, for you to comment so directly on something that is the cause of my every insecurity.” she said. “He always was the jealous type. Jealous and selfish.”

At the mention of Quentin’s nickname Eliot’s heart dropped, turning his fluttering embarrassment into bitter anger. 

“I suppose it was only a matter of time until we broached the subject of… our mutual acquaintance.”

Julia shrugged. “Quentin has a way of inserting himself into conversation, even when he’s not present.”

“You talk so harshly of your friend,” Eliot said, all notes of apology removed from his voice. “It is ironic that you should insult him so openly when he has suffered so greatly to be granted the same recognition as an artist that you have enjoyed your entire life.”

Julia laughed, flashing him the white of her teeth. “And he’s still a martyr as well. I can’t say that I’m shocked.”

“He—“ Eliot stuttered, furrowing his brow. “He never asks for sympathy. I only know how he has suffered to create _authentic_ art, how he has _worked.”_

“You seem to know more than me, so why carry on? He has little need of me now that he has your mentorship.” Julia shrugged, sipping her tea. “I’m not sure why you came here today if it was only to insult me and defend Quentin Coldwater’s honor.”

The name again. It pierced through Eliot’s skin like a spike. He had traveled far to not hear that name, to learn how to be without the words against his tongue…

“I _came_ to meet the artist I would be collaborating with, obviously,” Eliot snapped. “Or would you rather all communication between us be between myself and your father?”

Her nostrils flared. “I sense that you have opinions. No doubt Quentin has spun a gothic tale for you to enjoy.”

“I would only count the part where you rest under the thumb of a conniving villain as gothic.”

Julia scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Quentin is as childish as always, as if the world is contrived of villains and maidens in distress. He always sought a grand ending, a denouement worthy of a novel, and I–” she shook her head, pursing her lips. “It’s no matter. He enjoys great success now, thanks to you. I try to be civil with him, to pay homage to our childhood friendship, and yet his correspondence is cold. Why he still worries himself over me and my doings is a mystery.”

“Perhaps because he thinks of you as a friend,” Eliot said. “Even though you have provided _little_ in the way of support for him–”

“Do you refer to his proposal of marriage or the promotion of his music?”

Eliot shook his head, frowning. “You are _insufferable–”_

“And you, sir, are just as _arrogant_ as I thought you would be.”

“Fraulein–”

“Don’t _Fraulein_ me. I am the most famous concert pianist in Europe. I performed serious concerts for royalty at age ten, a feat you only managed as a grown man. I have been performing for the masses since I was eight years old, Herr Waugh, _a child._ I know my trade, and perform it expertly and without complaint. Music is my craft, not some extension of of my soul, something my _dear friend_ Quentin could seek to learn if he is to survive in this world.”

Silence followed her harsh words, and Eliot watched as Julia’s face fell. It was as if her words had bounced off the wall behind him and she finally heard them for herself. Eliot recognizes the look of someone who had realized that they had said too much. She frowned, looking down at her lap. 

“I only meant–”

In that moment, the front door opened with a bang. Julia flinched. 

“Christ on high–” she muttered under her breath just as a stocky man of middling height stalked through the door into the parlor. 

“Julia!” came a rough-edged voice, “Get in here this instant–”

Who Eliot assumed to be Herr Reynard stopped in his tracks just as he entered the parlor, mouth agape as he took in the scene before him. Julia, her face having gone white as a sheet, and Eliot, midway through sipping his too-strong tea. 

“Ah,” Reynard said, clearing his throat and straightening his back to a more aristocratic height. “Herr Waugh, I wasn’t expecting you until noon.”

Eliot smiled with tight lips. “I thought I might arrive early, which was very rude of me. Luckily, Fraulein Wicker was so kind to receive me anyway.”

A muscle jumped in Reynard’s jaw, but Eliot held his gaze unblinkingly. Reynard himself was an unimpressive looking man. Shorter than average, he wore his light brown hair unfashionably short. His grey suit was well-made but unremarkable, his shoes practical and brown. If he had seen him on the street Eliot would have thought him a successful shopkeeper in his Sunday best. 

But– there was something about his eyes. Sharp and almost catlike they were as he evidently thought of the best words to say.

“I hope you are satisfied with your lodgings,” he said, squaring his stance and clasping his hands behind his back. “Your agent was most adamant about your many… requirements.”

Eliot nodded, thinking of the cramped and cold apartment with disdain. “I am most lucky to have a stalwart like Pickwick in my corner.”

“Father,” Julia said, her voice half-swallowed back in her throat where before she had spoken confidently to Eliot. “Herr Waugh and I were just discussing Quentin’s success in Vienna.”

Reynard smirked and huffed a laugh, stepping to the far side of the room to pour himself a crystal tumblr of some dark amber liquor. 

“Coldwater?” The glass thunked loudly on the wood. “I heard something or other about him, back in the empire, but nothing so far-reaching as here.”

Eliot bit the inside of his cheek. Reynard turned as he took a sip of his drink, grimacing at the undoubtedly bitter liquor. Julia continued, her smile desperately painted on her face.

“Yes, well, his concerto has just recently been published, and I have room on my program now, since we have decided to remove the _Hexantanz,_ and I thought–”

“Don’t start that again,” Reynard interrupted sharply. “We’re removing it for time, or to add something more Parisian to your setlist. Not one of Coldwater’s provincial concoctions.” He scoffed at his last words, admiring his own humor.

Julia closed her mouth, swallowing and looking down at her lap. Eliot gripped the arm of his chair, grounding himself. 

“It was an idea of mine, I’m afraid,” Eliot said, keeping his voice conversational despite Reynard’s lack of manners. “I told Miss Wicker that I would be playing Quentin’s _Papillons_ at Madame Durand’s salon tomorrow night—” the lie fell easily from his lips, as if he and Julia had had another, more civilized conversation in another world and he were not avoided playing Quentin’s music since leaving Vienna. “--and I’m afraid we became over excited talking about the wealth of new music to be played these days.”

“Over-excitement is bad for women,” Reynard responded. “Especially those burdened with artistry. Speaking of–” He downed the remainder of his drink, setting the glass on the cart. “Julia needs to practice for the performance tonight. I’m sure you can see yourself out, Herr Waugh.”

Julia stood. “Father– really, what’s one hour’s difference going to make–”

“The difference between you and the poor house.” 

Julia stepped back, smoothing her hands over her skirts, and nodding. Without another word, she turned and left the room. Eliot watched her as she disappeared, and a few moments later, Eliot heard the tell-tale rumble of quickly executed scales from the other room. 

“Are you still here, Waugh?”

Eliot cleared his throat, endeavoring to keep an even tone. 

“Indeed, I thought you had wished to meet with me.”

Reynard barked a laugh. “Yes, I did. I wanted to tell you to keep your queer notions and ideas away from my daughter. She is of fragile mind and disposition, and must be kept under close and watchful care. But, as you flagrantly displayed here, you care not for what I think.”

Eliot stood, joining him across the room.

“Really, Herr Reynard, it’s nothing to be upset about. I only thought that the Fraulein and myself should be acquainted properly before performing.”

“Let me get something straight, Waugh,” Reynard said, turning and facing him square. “I made this deal with your sniveling agent because I seek to widen Julia’s audience and range of performance, not so you could fill her head with fanciful ideas.”

Eliot furrowed his brow. “I assure you I did nothing of the sort. On the contrary, your daughter is very stiff in her ideals.”

“Good. We shall keep it that way. I don’t wish for her to become overburdened with socializing. She already writes entirely too often to Coldwater.”

“I believe they are friends, yes.”

“Something I have yet to properly quash. Coldwater is a dangerous influence, brooding and overall _lazy_ when it comes to the proper work of music. A true artist like Julia has no room for friends such as he.”

Eliot straightened to his full height, knowing he was a towering presence over Herr Reynard. 

“I assure you, sir, I have no designs to corrupt your daughter. I will see myself out.” He took his cane in hand walked to the door, calling over his shoulder. “Only, I hadn’t received word that it was fashionable for true artists to wear their hair in pigtails while performing, I shall endeavor to grow my hair longer to achieve the proper style.”

Without waiting for Reynard’s undoubtedly angry reply, Eliot carried himself the short distance to the front door and onto the street without a second glance back. 

Back on the bustling Paris streets, Eliot stowed his cane under his arm to properly light a cigarette, his hands shaking. The pale fear in Julia’s eyes haunted him as he walked the short distance to a cafe to have lunch, and then back to his apartment, confused as to how a woman who had gone toe to toe with him over tea could cow so suddenly to an obviously weak man like Reynard. She had obeyed like a trained dog, all of the fire gone from her as soon as that man had entered the house. 

He let himself into his empty apartment, assuming Todd was out on errands before the performance tonight. He hung his jacket in the wardrobe, kicking out the piano bench and sitting. He began his opening piece for the concert that night, practicing the first cadenza section five times over, moving on to a full run through. His shoulders were beginning to ache when he noticed something sitting on his bed, out of the corner of his eye. 

He remembered what Todd had said earlier, about there being a letter from Quentin waiting for him, but upon inspection, it wasn’t a letter, but a package. Eliot’s brow furrowed as he tugged on the twine that knotted it together. The brown paper fell away, and a published manuscript fell into his hands. Eliot recognized the typeset as Herr Bauer’s good work. It was unbound, clearly fresh off the press. Eliot peered up at the title imprinted on the cover page in looping, ornate script. 

_A Fantasie Sonata in C Major_

_By Quentin Coldwater_

_Dedicated to Herr Eliot Waugh_

Eliot nearly knocked over the bench getting to the piano, the cigarette dangerously hanging from his mouth and spewing ashes all over the keys. 

His fingers froze, curling in on themselves before her could depress a single key. Quentin’s music sat before him, the music that was in his heart. His love didn’t compose mere trifles for the applause of the audience, each note was plucked from his soul and laid bare. His brave, brave Q. 

Eliot wanted to curse. Quentin–fool that he was _,_ a _beautiful, wonderful_ fool, sought to lure him home with a siren’s call. He had been bewitched by Quentin’s music since the beginning, ever since Joshua Hoberman’s failed interpretation in the provincial town hall of Leipzig. His song had brought them together before Eliot had known sweetness of Quentin’s kisses, or the full ardor of his love and passion. 

He wouldn’t play it. 

Of course he [played](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=scavxcPLKy4) it. 

From the beginning, and then again starting in the middle, playing the slow section three times just to hear Quentin’s sorrowful melody. He opened a bottle of wine, swigging it straight from the vessel without a glass as he let the music wash over him. He played clumsily, inexpertly. Quentin’s music was special, different from the empty show pieces the crowds clamored for while he toured. It was thick and unyielding when prodded, and the more he heard how inadequate he played it, the more he drank. 

He played until his hands fell numb. Try as he might, the music rang hollow. 

“Play it for me,” he had said one evening, soon after Quentin had moved to Vienna. It had been summertime then as well, and the study windows were open to tempt the breeze, visible to any possible passersby. Eliot couldn’t touch him, and the forced separation made Quentin look all the more handsome in the warm sunlight. “Please, I crave your music, my own sweet Apollo.”

Quentin rolled his eyes from the piano bench. 

“I’m in the habit of composing figures that I myself can’t play. It would be a very clumsy attempt should I try to play this without practicing first. I would be horrified if I performed below your standards.”

“My standard is you,” Eliot said, rising to stand behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder. To the passerby outside he might look like an encouraging mentor, even though Quentin had forgone his necktie in the heat. Sweat glistening at the base of his throat, and Eliot felt wildly reckless. “Please, don’t make me beg.”

Quentin leaned into the touch. “I should be so lucky.”

“My wicked lover,” Eliot grinned, leaning over him as if to demonstrate some technical challenge. He did play a fast chromatic phrase, but it was nothing from the music on Quentin’s page. He was here to learn from Quentin, would always seek to learn from him. 

He turned his face, just so, and whispered against Quentin’s loose collar. 

“I beg of you,” he breathed. “I _entreat_ you to grant me the privilege of hearing the music from your hand.”

Quentin had granted him his wish then, but the warm memory sat hollow in his mind as he stared at the flat notes gracing the page in front of him. 

He threw the manuscript to the ground as the clock struck six, scattering them across the floor of his room like a million white-winged doves to the tune of the bells of Notre Dame. They fluttered and settled like leaves in the wind. Horrified, he stooped to the ground to gather them, out of order and becoming creased from his frantic hands. 

A knock sounded at the door. 

“Sir, are you ready to change–”

Todd stopped in his tracks as he took in what Eliot assumed was quite a scene before him. Eliot, on his knees, clutching manuscript paper to his chest as if it were the shroud of Christ himself. 

Eliot swallowed hard, cheeks burning as Todd squatted beside him to help. 

“You don’t have to– it’s my fault–” 

“It’s not a problem, sir.”

Oh, but it was a problem, and Eliot hands shook as they gathered the last of the papers. Todd set them on the piano bench and helped Eliot to his feet. He stumbled, his head spinning, and fell to his knee with a thump.

“Oh dear,” Todd said, the understatement of the century.

“I’m in a state, Todd,” Eliot said. “I can’t– the performance–”

Todd cleared his throat and hauled Eliot up to his feet, setting him on the bed and tossing his cigarette case at him. 

“You can, sir,” Todd affirmed. “And you will, or Reynard will have us both killed.”

Eliot lit one last cigarette, tapping the ashes out the window, trying to suck in as much sobering cold air as he could. Todd found the outfit they had agreed upon that morning, and drew fresh water from the pump for him to wash his face. Eliot followed orders like a soldier, swallowing back the slurred pleas and sobs that threatened to pass his lips every time he glanced at the music that sat on his piano bench. 

In two hours he was expected on the royal stage of Paris, to be weighed and measured by the landed gentry, held up in brutal comparison with his rival. 

What a scene. 

Somehow, Todd managed to ready him in under an hour, with only the silent, tight-lipped disapproval that had become his trademark as of late. He didn’t comment on the empty bottle underneath the piano bench, and Eliot thought in his drunken stupor that perhaps Todd felt guilty about leaving the package for Eliot to find. But no, it couldn’t be, it wasn’t Todd’s job to preserve Eliot’s feelings, but it was his job to fasten Eliot’s cufflinks when his fingers were too clumsy to accomplish it. 

The carriage ride to the theater was quiet. Eliot gulped down a scalding saucer of black coffee given to him by the cook, miraculously not spilling on himself. 

They took the back entrance as the theater was already full to bursting. It was a sold-out concert, and Julia was backstage when Eliot arrived, pacing in a mint green silk gown with pink lace trimming at the hem. Her hair was, blessedly, not done in pigtails but still in girlish ringlets, pulled back from her face and spilling behind her back. 

“Where have you been?” She snapped. “We were meant to make a round to all the private boxes before the performance. I was forced to go with my father and—“

“I’m sorry,” Eliot said, his own voice pitiful and thin to his ears. “I was— indisposed—“

Julia’s brow furrowed. “Are you ill? I don’t understand, Herr Waugh. _Your_ agent contacted my father about this performance series, and so far you have arrived late and seem altogether uninterested in this whole affair.”

Eliot pulled a hand through his hair, swallowing hard. When he met Julia’s confused gaze, realization lit in her eyes, followed by anger. 

“It’s time for me to go out,” she said, voice laced with icy chill. “I suggest you find a way to make yourself presentable in the next half hour.”

She hurried away with a rustle if her skirts, pasting a smile on her face and striding out to the stage to thunderous applause. She curtsied and smiled at her audience before taking her seat at the piano. 

Eliot turned to Todd, hands shaking as he adjusted his cuffs under his velvet jacket.

“What is my encore tonight?”

“ _Des Abends_ , sir.”

Eliot shook his head. “No— it can’t be, I’ll play the Consolation instead.”

Todd sighed, the epitome of frustration. “We already discussed this, in the carriage ride to Paris. You played that last night, sir, and this is much the same audience. You agreed that it was time.”

“But I’m—“ _I’m not worthy of it. I’m not worthy of any of this._ “I can’t. I can’t do this.”

“I’m afraid you must, sir. You must play, and then you must socialize, and only then are you allowed to go home.”

“Home,” Eliot said, the word scraping against his throat. He fumbled in his jacket for the flask he knew was there. Just one more drink, something to dull the edge forming at the corner of his mind. 

“I’ll hold that for now, sir,” Todd said, plucking it from his hand. 

When all was said and done, Todd ushered Eliot onto the stage, the keeper of the most painful sobriety of Eliot’s life. With one shove he was Eliot Waugh again, most renowned pianist on the continent, grinning and beaming at the masses that would sooner rather eat him alive. He accepted it with gritted teeth, bowing with a hand gripping the frame of the ornately carved instrument that had been provided for him to play.

He had planned on performing his concert etudes tonight. They were light and cosmopolitan and perfect for the Parisian audience bedecked in their frills. They would sigh at _Un Sospiro,_ and delight in the whimsy of _La Campanella._ He would finish the evening with one of his popular paraphrases, something to rouse the audience and leave them begging for more. However, when he brought his hands to the keys, he lost all memory of his planned program. 

One of his newest compositions, an [ etude ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CXGeOHdiHrE) of sorts, came to him instead. 

It wasn’t ready for performance, not even close to it, and the technical challenge it presented was often too brutal for even his sober hands but– he didn’t care. He had composed it in a fit of rage at himself, broken glass littering the floor of the sparse room he had stayed in in London, Quentin’s letters weighing down his heart and his own stupidity burning a hole in his chest. 

Eliot could compose without Quentin. Without his wife. But without the very essence of his soul, his music was pain. Pure, and cold enough to burn him. 

The ending rang hollow, a triumphant set of chords that conveyed some sort of victory. Victory for the independent states of Europe, they would say in the papers tomorrow, deeming him some sort of Hungarian nationalist no doubt. It was gossip most intriguing, but false. He cared not for the political trifles of his home country, for the kings and queens that sat on lofty thrones plummeting to the ground, he only cared for the people he loved. The chords were triumphant, it was true, but the victory they celebrated was his own. He had successfully cast his loves away and set his heart on an island on its own. 

If only Quentin would let him entomb himself in peace. 

They cheered for him as he rose to his feet and took his bow, and then another. Not a single patron sat and his mouth stretched into a cruel approximation of a smile as he accepted their praise. An encore would be the convention now, expected and anticipated. 

What would Eliot Waugh give them next?

He sat down at the keys once more, adjusting his jacket tails behind him. The applause died away immediately, a silent hum surrounding him instead. They waited, and he swallowed back the bile that rose in throat. 

_Des Abends_ it was to be. 

He needn’t have practiced it. Quentin’s music fell from his fingertips as easily as breathing. It contrasted garishly with the messy and ill-formed composition he had just premiered, its polished radiance a jewel among dusty coals. It was the quiet music of the evening, a spell to bewitch them all. 

_You did not stand–_ Eliot remembered his own voice, choked and half-lost to himself in the dressing room of the Gewandhaus, all those months ago. _I thought–_

 _I was simply astonished,_ Quentin had said. 

Stripped bare of his defenses, Eliot returned to the backstage with his wounds freshly opened, his eyes burning with unshed tears:

And walked right into the fury of one Julia Wicker. 

“What in the devil was that?” she hissed, nostrils flaring. 

“Quentin’s music,” he said simply. 

“Not that—“ she waved a hand exasperatedly. “Your composition, that ghastly _thing_ to which you subjected the audience.”

“I see you enjoyed the debut of my latest work,” Eliot replied coolly.

“You have a _set program_ , my father and I slaved over mine to complement yours and you throw it away for a sloppy improvisation—”

“You and your father,” Eliot repeated. “Is that so? It was an equal collaboration between you?”

“You don’t get an opinion,” Julia snapped. “After that ‘performance’ — seven minutes of flash and you barely sober enough to keep your hands on the keys—”

“Flash is what they want,” Eliot interrupted. “The audience doesn’t care about substance, they care about acrobatics. I had imagined you knew that well already, going by _your_ programs.”

Julia’s eyes flashed. “You arrogant, condescending—”

“What are you doing, shouting like a madwoman?” Reynard was livid, his eyes cold and voice a spitting whisper. “Do you know how many servants are watching, waiting to gossip to the papers about your hysterics? And lord knows how many patrons may be backstage—”

Julia, caught in the momentum of her anger, evidently forgot to transform into a cowering girl before speaking to her father. 

“You expect me to endure this humiliation?” She demanded. “Let the patrons see the great Waugh, to drunk to remember his own program.” 

Eliot found Julia’s rage rather marvelous despite being the cause of it. For a startling moment he was reminded of Margo, and it brought some slim shred of solace to his heart. Reynard did not share his sentiments. 

“You _dare_ raise your voice to me—”

Eliot watched Reynard raise his hand to strike his daughter as though they were all trapped in slow-flowing amber. He barely thought to move— he was surprised he was sober enough to react in time— but then he stood between Julia and her father. The force behind Reynard’s arm met his open palm with the force it might have met Julia’s cheek, and then Eliot was holding Reynard’s wrist in the grip of his fist. They stood frozen in tableau for what felt like an hour, the muffled _slap_ of Reynard’s coat sleeve against Eliot’s palm sounding between them.

Reynard stared at him, his face a mask of shock and Julia its twin. 

“Forgive me, Herr Reynard,” Eliot said, “But I felt compelled to prevent you from debasing yourself in such a manner. After all, as you say, there are people watching.”

“I won’t be scolded like a child,” Reynard hissed, face red. He ripped his arm from Eliot’s grasp. “And you should mind your business, after that spectacle. I’m not a man you wish to have as your enemy, Waugh. As for you,” he turned to Julia. “I’ll deal with you later.”

He stalked off, his steps harsh against the hardwood of the backstage. 

“That was worthy of a novel,” Julia said, voice scornful. “Do you intend to sweep me off my feet next?”

Eliot scoffed. “Hardly.” 

If only she knew. 

“Do I not get even a meagre thanks?” he asked, flexing his hand where he had borne the force of Reynard’s slap. 

“I didn’t ask you to intervene.” 

Eliot frowned. “You would have let him strike you.”

Julia scowled, though her eyes were tight. “I don’t _l_ _et_ my father do anything, Herr Waugh, as you might imagine. Or perhaps you can’t empathize, given your _idyllic_ Hungarian childhood.” 

Eliot raised an eyebrow. “I have empathy to spare, madame.” 

“I thought that you might.” 

Julia Wicker had a sharp mind to match her sharp tongue. By god, Eliot was nearly _enjoying_ this conversation, though the dark topic left a bitter taste on his tongue. Again his wife came to mind. Her father had been distant, and strict, and generally unappreciative of Margo’s spectacular wit and musical talent, but the thought of her in Julia’s place...

“You are a great musician,” he admitted, studying this woman dressed like an ingenue for the sake of her father’s coin purse. “You deserve better treatment.” 

“You are a great musician, yet this is how you treat _yourself_ ,” Julia replied, gesturing broadly toward Eliot’s pathetic person. “I’d suggest you to direct your heroics closer to home, Herr Waugh.” 

Eliot pursed his lips, but could not argue. As it was, he was long overdue for another drink. “I’ll take that under advisement, Fraulein Wicker.”

She nodded curtly, as if dismissing him. He fiddled with a pair of gloves in his pocket. Violet silk, a present from Margo in Leipzig last spring. He hadn’t even tossed the garment to the audience, as was his trademark. 

“Do you think art and tragedy are doomed to be partners?” he asked her as he lingered. 

He thought that she of all people might understand his query, but Julia’s brow furrowed quizzically. She wet her lips, and the next expression to cross her face was one of pity, he would swear. 

“What a curious view of the world you have, Herr Waugh,” she said at last. “I’m not sure I would have the energy to sustain such a melodrama.” 

She left then, an air of finality to the click of her heels. Something told Eliot that there would be no socializing tonight, a fact that made him nearly gleeful. He sighed, wondering about the location of his top hat, and then the location of his butler. 

He wandered through the backstage, looking, all the while accepting accolades and compliments with his usual grace, even as a raging headache pounded in his temples. After some time, the crowds thinned out, and he found _one_ of his missing possessions, sat against the wall in a back corner of the theater. 

“Todd?”

He had never seen Todd have so much as a sip of wine in public, and yet here he was, sitting on the floor in his finest livery like a common tavern drunk, his chin dropped against his chest. He looked up, recognizing Eliot with a glassy gaze. 

“Herr Waugh— _damn.”_

Todd failed to stand, and that was when Eliot saw the culprit of Todd’s drunkenness. Eliot took his own silver engraved flask from Todd’s hand, wincing at how light it was. 

“Todd,” he asked. “Todd, has something happened?” 

“Only your concert, sir,” Todd said voice thick. “But then, you were there. You would know.”

Eliot had half a mind to take a seat beside his butler and finish off the contents of the flask, but something stopped him. Had he finally driven Todd to madness with his histrionics? A sobering thought, to be sure. 

“Oh, and my mother is almost certainly dying.” 

Eliot looked back down to see Todd with a crumpled letter pulled free of his pocket. 

“I— oh, Todd, I’m sorry. You’ve just had word?” 

“This morning,” Todd revealed, smile disappearing. “But you weren’t meant to know. It’s not proper, and—”

“And I’ve been a wreck.” 

“—and this was an important concert,” Todd continued. “But I thought, once you were on stage, that I could just take a moment, and one sip to take the edge off—” 

Todd looked up at Eliot, his eyes sharpening briefly as he appeared to take in his position. 

“Sir, I think I may be drunk.” 

Eliot sighed deeply. “That makes one of us, Todd. Let’s get you home, hm?” 

Eliot counted himself lucky to be a musician then, as being treated like a servant also meant that one could _disappear_ like a servant. Every theater came equipped with a handy back door for making hasty and otherwise shameful exits, and the royal theater of Paris was no different. 

“Here we are,” Eliot said, steadying Todd with a hand to his shoulder as his butler weaved his way into the narrow alley. “The scenic route.”

Todd snorted, and Eliot was relieved to see a smile grace his pained face. 

“No one could say that you mistreat your staff, sir,” he said, leaning against the brick wall and closing his eyes to catch his breath. 

“I believe there isn’t a staff in the world I have mistreated, my good man.”

Todd laughed after a beat, nearly doubling over in his unsteady state. 

“I think,” he admitted, stumbling, “That is, I only meant to take a sip or two— but I think I’ve forgotten how to hold my spirits, sir.”

Eliot helped him stand straight and led him down the alleyway to where the groom waited with the carriage. 

“It is a skill that must be maintained in rigorous practice, I’m afraid. We’ll be home soon.”

Despite their humor in the back alley, Todd sobered as they took the bumpy carriage ride back to the apartment. Eliot helped him mount the many stairs, his butler an almost dead weight from the sadness that radiated from him, inebriated or not. 

“In you go,” he said, unlocking the door with keys from Todd’s pocket and letting them both inside. Todd, clearly satisfied with their progress and content to not push their luck, decided to sit on the floor in the front room.

“As good a spot as any,” Eliot said, resigning himself to sit next to Todd against the sofa, drawing a knee up to his chest. 

They sat in silence for a moment, the dark apartment completely still and silent in the late hour. 

“Altogether, not my worst concert.”

Todd smiled. “No. I believe that would be Weimar in— 1833? When the duke threw a pewter cauldron of stew at your head for playing French music?"

Eliot laughed at the memory. “And to think I nearly sent Quentin to work there.”

Todd shrugged at that, as if nothing Eliot did could shock him now. Eliot let the moment pass, gathering his thoughts. 

“Why would you think it improper to tell me about your mother’s ill health?” Eliot asked quietly, looking at Todd’s profile in the dim moonlight. 

Todd swallowed, looking down at his legs sprawled inelegantly in front of him. 

“It’s not my place to burden my employer with my problems,” he said, his voice thickened with drink but still every inch the professional. “I know my duty to you. Sir.”

Eliot bit his bottom lip. An idea occurred to him. 

“Am I really in such dire straits?” Eliot asked now, not in the German he had spoken for the last seven years but in the language of his boyhood, Magyar. It was clumsy in his mouth but he could never forget it. Neither could Todd. 

“Am I in such dire straits,” he repeated, “That you would let your mother pass on from this world without her eldest son at her bedside?”

Todd started at the sound of their native tongue passing Eliot’s lips; they had not spoken Hungarian in years, at least not to each other. Eliot occasionally tossed out a phrase to the roaring crowds in Hungary when toured there, but that was always less than authentic. 

Todd cleared his throat and replied in turn, the round syllables dragging his voice into a slightly lower register as it did Eliot’s.

“After tonight, Eliot— after watching you nearly plummet yourself to ruin— you expect me to leave you here?” 

Hungarian was a frank language between them. They had switched to only German around the same time Todd had begun calling him “sir” and “Herr Waugh” even in the privacy of their old one room apartment. 

“This isn’t Berlin, Todd.”

Todd huffed a humorless laugh, emboldened. 

“Indeed it isn’t, but I wonder if it isn’t _much_ worse.”

“We aren’t sharing a beggars ration for supper so I should think it is better.”

Todd shook his head. “We might have been thinner then, but you had hope, Eliot. Now—“ He stopped, shaking his head again. 

“And now what?”

“You fled Vienna like a coward.”

Eliot winced. “Well. I suppose I deserved that.”

Todd touched his shoulder. “I didn’t mean it to be cruel. I only mean that you had a chance for happiness— real, lifelong contentment— and instead you have chosen what?”

“Noble and selfless solitude?”

“Bullshit.”

Eliot laughed at the coarse curse word, roughened by the Hungarian accent. 

“Herr Coldwater wants only to be good to you,” Todd said, voice slurring slightly as his drinks finally caught up to him. “He’s nothing like— like—him. I can’t understand why you wouldn’t let him.” 

Eliot laughed, a short, rueful thing. 

“Why would you not kiss me back,” he asked, chuckling now over the memory, “When we were young men in our little Berlin flat?”

Todd frowned, but it was fond. “It wasn’t in my nature.” 

“I know.” Eliot had been a heartbroken boy then, so ready to cling to any source of warmth that he confused the clasp of friendship for something more. Todd had been gentle with him, at least. “Neither is it in my nature to accept a man’s kindness.”

Todd stared at him. “Honestly, you put things in the queerest terms sometimes, I can’t half understand what you’re talking about.” 

Eliot was affronted enough that he didn’t manage a response before Todd continued. 

“It isn’t in your nature to refuse kindness, it was your fate to be _denied_ it,” he said, “Now it is offered freely and you flinch away, like a dog who has been struck one too many times.” 

“That is hardly a flattering comparison,” Eliot grumbled.

“If you desired flattery you should have kept me sober.” Todd took another sip from Eliot’s flask as if to prove his point. “You think Coldwater is Mikhail, or your father? That he would hate you for the truth of who you are, or the love you wish to give? You do the man a great disservice. It’s also just woefully ignorant. He is as much an outsider as you, despite his past affairs with women.”

“You think I was wrong to leave.” 

“It’s not my place to say.” Todd hiccuped, then continued: “But yes, I certainly do. I think you will be lucky to be forgiven.” 

“By Margo? Or Quentin?” 

“By the pair of them.” Todd shook his head, running his hands through his hair. “That you’re still under any illusion that Herr Coldwater intends to leave you is a mystery beyond my comprehension.” 

“Then he is doomed, as am I.” 

Todd blew out a frustrated breath, knocking his head back lightly against the sofa. 

“How would we survive it?” Eliot demanded. “Even if Quentin’s heart stays true forever, and he doesn’t come to hate me for stealing his life away, how will he stay on as my ‘student,’ as we turn thirty, or forty? Will no one ask questions, while he stays and Margo and I remain childless? If you have ideas I’m all ears.”

“There was a time you would trust Lady Margo to find a way,” Todd said after a beat. “I remember you, thick as thieves with your scheming and here you are, a stonemason’s son and an aristocrat’s husband. Not to mention the most famous musician in Europe.”

“This isn’t my wife’s burden to bear,” Eliot replied. “Why should Margo struggle so that I could have Quentin? What about her happiness?”

“I imagine she would do it because she loves you,” Todd said, taking another swig out of Eliot’s flask. “People are funny that way.”

Eliot shook his head. “When I return I must be devoted to her. To her happiness. For too long I have been the sole focus. The only topic of conversation.”

“And how will Lady Margo feel about being used as your distraction?”

Eliot pursed his lips. “This is all tangential. It only confuses my earlier point.”

“Which was?”

“You should go back to Vienna,” Eliot sighed at last. “Be with your mother. Help your sister with what needs helping.” 

“Eliot—” 

“If I swear on Margo’s life not to continue drinking myself to death, would you go?” Eliot asked, twisting his wedding ring on his finger. 

Todd’s expression was grave. “Is that what you’ve been trying to do?” 

“I—no, not as such,” Eliot said. “But I see the road ahead, if I continue on as I have been.” He sighed. “I don’t know if my wife yet holds any warmth for me in her heart, but I do swear— that is, I would never put a letter in her hands detailing my ignoble death in some seedy Paris opium den. ...I could never do that to her.” 

Todd shivered. “To even hear you speak such a thing…”

“I _swear,_ Todd. This is not a funeral tour.”

Todd looked at him long and hard then, as if seeing through the layers of _the_ Eliot Waugh to the truest core that lied beneath the fine suits and put-on airs. 

“I haven’t spoken with my family in nearly ten years, Todd. I would give anything— nearly anything,” Eliot amended, “To have my mother ask for me. Or for my sister to write, even with ill tidings. I think— I really think you must go, or I fear you’ll come to regret it deeply.”

Slowly, Todd nodded. His eyelids hung low, the liquor slowing his blood and dragging him towards slumber. 

“Alright. If you think it is best.”

“I do.”

Eliot held his expression steady, though inside the thought of being completely alone in Paris was starting to turn his stomach, despite his convictions. 

He stood, offering a hand. 

“Now you will rest.” He pulled Todd to his feet, then sat him on the sofa. “You have a long journey starting tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? How will I—“

Eliot set one of the faded sofa cushions beneath Todd’s head as he laid back. His friend was drunk indeed, falling asleep in the sitting room without so much as a whisper of objection. “I’ll arrange everything. There’s a coach to Vienna that leaves at ten, and I will make sure you are ready.”

Hesitation clouded Todd’s tired eyes. 

“Eliot—“

“No protests. You have insulted me enough tonight that I must be allowed this indulgence.”

With a smile and a soft laugh, Todd surrendered to Eliot’s will and to the call of sleep. Eliot looked down fondly on his valet, who had worked himself through grief and exhaustion to keep Eliot in performing shape all these weeks far from home. He wondered if Todd wouldn’t be more comfortable out of his livery, but decided that such an intimacy would be a step too far for either of them. Instead Eliot unlaced his shoes and pulled them free, to spare them the fee of cleaning the sofa, and left Todd to get what rest he could. 

Despite Todd’s objections, it was hardly work for Eliot to find Todd’s satchel under the bed in his room and tuck in his few personal effects. He may have long been accustomed to the efforts of servants folding and laundering on his behalf, but there had been a time in Eliot’s life— hardly ten years ago—where he was obliged to pack his own bag, or go without. So it was a simple matter of transferring the contents of Todd’s small chest of drawers—a few clean shirts, socks, underthings, all kept well organized as Eliot’s own armoire—to Todd’s bag, and laying out his traveling suit for the morning. 

Eliot tucked a few French bills in the breast pocket of Todd’s jacket, should he have any expenses making his way out of Paris, and made sure his coin purse was well stocked. Funds for the rest of his journey went in an envelope, and then into an inner pocket of Todd’s bag. It was Eliot’s duty to cover his butler’s traveling expenses, of course, but he counted out extra banknotes from his lockbox, for Todd to spend on comfort or haste as he saw fit. It felt good, almost selfish, for Eliot to see to his valet’s needs for once. Even here at his lowest, Eliot was still capable of giving to another, even in this small way. 

“Godspeed, my friend,” Eliot murmured, leaving the bag open for Todd’s shaving kit once he had used it in the morning. Content with what preparations he could make at this late hour, he blew out the lamp in Todd’s room, and saw himself to his own bed. Always a light sleeper without the fog of alcohol to dull him, he awoke at first light. He dressed himself, giving Todd what few extra hours he could to sleep off his drink, and set off on foot through the streets of early morning Paris. An autograph and an extra coin to the driver bought Todd a last minute seat on that morning’s coach, bound for arrival in Reims in three days’ time. It would be the first leg in a long journey back to Vienna. 

“Todd, are you alive?” Eliot inquired as he let himself back into the apartment. “I found the most charming vendor on my way back from the coachmen selling _croissants_. I tell you, you have never tasted such a thing the way they fold it with ham and cheese—” 

He found the sofa empty, but at the sound of his voice Todd emerged from his room in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, his hair still damp from a wash. 

“Thank you, sir,” Todd said, all formality again in the light of day as he buttoned his cuffs. “Though I’m not sure I could eat a bite if I tried.” 

Indeed Todd looked more than a bit peaked, his cheeks pallored and his eyes gaunt. 

“Well, you’re up and about, which is better than I expected,” Eliot admitted. “And your ticket on the coach is secure. They’ll expect you in an hour.” 

“I—thank you.” Todd, cast his gaze low. “Herr Waugh, I can’t tell you how embarrassed I am— making a spectacle at the theatre, and speaking out of turn—” 

“Not another word, Todd.” Eliot shook his head. After all that he had put him through in this god forsaken tour, Todd thought to feel shame over one night of weakness. That was unacceptable. “We spoke as old friends do, nothing more and nothing less. Do you understand?” 

Todd swallowed, but Eliot thought he saw some relief ease his furrowed brow.

“Yes, sir.” 

“Now, we shall tuck this away in your things,” Eliot continued, holding up the paper wrapped croissant, “And when hunger strikes at noon you shall be well provisioned.” 

“Very good.” Todd cleared his throat. “Will you be needing anything, sir? I’ve pressed your shirt for the evening, but from now on—I mean you’ll be here alone.” 

“Yes, well.” Eliot passed Todd his lunch. “I shall manage. It wouldn’t be the first time I brushed a suit, or worked an iron. God forbid I be overwhelmed, I’ll leave extra coin for the maid’s assistance.” 

“I could leave a note, or some instructions—” 

“Todd,” Eliot said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You have graver matters which you must tend to. I won’t appear at any concerts with a creased collar, I swear.” 

A hint of a smile curled Todd’s lips. “Very well, then,” he agreed. “I shall see to the rest of my things.” 

It was no time at all before nine-thirty befell them, and Todd stood in the doorway with his bag in hand, his plain traveling jacket on his shoulders. Eliot brushed a bit of lint from his lapel. The fact that Todd had not done so himself spoke to the urgency of his travel. 

“Give your family my regards,” he said. “And I shall see you in a few months’ time.” 

“It’s not too late, sir,” Todd was still promising, fidgeting with the handle of his bag. “That is, if I’m needed here—you must know I’d be willing—” 

In a fit of impulse Eliot took Todd’s face in his hands and kissed him on the cheek, as one might kiss a brother. There was a time when they could have thought of each other as such, after all, before they set themselves in the positions they now held. 

“I haven’t forgotten,” he said, German crisp on his tongue in the cool morning light. Todd’s eyes were wide.

“Sir?”

“After all these years, I have not forgotten all that you’ve done for me, my friend,” Eliot repeated, letting Todd go. “I never will.”

Todd smiled, then, and for a second he looked again like the young groom with whom Eliot once shared cigarettes. 

“I know, sir.” He adjusted his bag in his hands. “I hope that you don’t forget all you have done for me. After all, there were two young Hungarians that needed saving in Berlin, all those years ago.”

Eliot smiled in turn, the words warming his heart, when they might have once pierced him like a knife.

“I suppose you’re right. Travel safe, Todd. I’ll pray you arrive to good news.” 

Once Todd has departed, Eliot milled around his empty apartment, restless, his mind abuzz with new energy. He felt alive, free from the mind-numbing drunkenness that had kept him underwater, downing and content to stay that way. Rising early and working in the service of someone else had cleared his thoughts. He felt a twinge of impatience with his past-self, so content to wallow in self-pity when _he_ had been the one to set the recent events of his life in motion. 

His watch ticked from inside his pocket, strangely loud. He was alone. It was a fact made even more obvious by the stillness of the room. Strangely, he did not despair. If the events of the night had proved anything, it was that he was not without use. He had helped Todd see sense, and put his own needs first. He knew what to do next. 

Standing, he straightened his clothes. Checked his reflection in the looking glass above the bureau. Was it his imagination, or did the dark circles under his eyes seem less imposing in the morning light?

He would go to see Julia Wicker, that was the first order of business, and make things right between them. If she chose to forgive him for his insobriety, he would offer whatever help she would accept. After all, she would not be the first artist he had assisted in pursuit of success. 

The air was warm and breezy when he took to the streets, walking briskly towards the Wicker’s townhouse. The manservant at the door let him know that Julia had gone to the theater for a rehearsal. It was only a short walk, and his spirits remained as high as the sun in the sky. 

“Mademoiselle Wicker has finished her rehearsal, and is in the dressing room, Monsieur Waugh,” the theater attendant informed him upon arrival. “It is only just down the hall.”

Eliot took the directions, pondering his opening statements to the woman with whom he had surely gotten off on the entirely wrong foot. Should he apologize? Was that too self-indulgent? Perhaps a promise of his eternal professionalism and an offer of his services as a tall, imposing figure would be enough? If she wouldn’t see reason about her father, he would be content to be a friend to her, for surely she was in need. 

As he approached the door to the dressing room, he stopped, hearing voices. 

“— dresses you up like a china doll— lets you be made a fool of, all for money—“

Two feminine voices were sharp but hushed, as if they were in a quarrel but trying to remain inconspicuous. 

“I am but a single woman, living in a world that would better see me fail.” That was Julia. “I must have security, Kady. My father provides for me.”

Kady? Eliot wracked his brain, somehow only slightly familiar with the name. 

“This is the way it must be,” Julia said, her tone insistent, hinging on desperate. “You don’t have to worry for me— I’ve always managed—“

“You didn’t always have me.”

The voice was firm and confident. Eliot leaned in further. 

“You’re right,” Julia replied. “But even so my father has been the making of my career. Without him I would be wasting away in some German orphanage, penniless, and alone—“

“Better an orphan and free! _You_ are the artist. People come to see you, not your father. Yes, he has given you the skills, but you will still have them when he is gone. And you wouldn’t be alone, we have each other.”

Julia sighed— a sound that was intimately and painfully familiar to Eliot. 

“Kady…”

The footsteps became louder, as if one of them had strode across the room. 

“Julia. Goddammit, won’t you _look_ at me?”

A pause rested in the air as she waited, before she continued. 

“You must know how much I wish to be with you, to be by your side. To be your– Listen to me. I know how to survive, I could take care of you— you don’t need him anymore, Julia, _Julia_ —“

There was the sound of shuffling feet, and then a glass shattered, and in his concern Eliot impulsively turned the doorknob under his hand. 

There was no doubt that a glass or vase had shattered, the evidence lay in the crunch of its pieces under Eliot’s feet. But based on the scene in front of him, it was not anger or an accident of clumsiness that had caused it. 

His jaw dropped.

Julia Wicker stood against the wall, her hands grasping at the shoulders of a tall, brunette. It was her maid, Eliot realized, the very same who had served them tea yesterday. The volume of their skirts rustled together as they embraced—Julia’s silk against her maid’s practical summer wool—as if all the world had fallen away and they two were the last. 

Eliot blinked as he watched Julia’s mouth move over Kady’s, intimately familiar with the same desperate passion and pain writ across her face. Passion for the overwhelming need you felt, and pain for how temporary you knew the satisfaction would be. It was the same feeling he experienced kissing Quentin, knowing that at any moment his dearest love could be taken from him, their love a cloud of smoke in the winds of the night. 

Relief washed over him, for a moment. _Of course_ , he thought. He remembered Julia’s tender smile at her maid yesterday, how it lingered with equal parts kindness and wistfulness. It would seem Julia Wicker’s famous reluctance to marry was not merely the product of her father’s machinations.

He exhaled, his heart thudding hard in his chest. 

Evidently he made a sound, because Julia’s eyes opened, and her hands pushed wildly at her maid. 

“Herr Waugh—” she gasped.

Julia’s maid— Kady— sprang away, both her and Julia’s faces white as a sheet as they took in Eliot standing in the doorway. 

“My god,” Julia whispered, devastated. “Um, Kady— that will be all, please go back to the house.” 

“Jul— Fraulein Wicker, let me—” 

“ _Go,_ Kady.” 

Kady nodded her assent and hurried away, her head bowed low as she ducked out to avoid Eliot’s eyes. 

“Well,” Eliot said. “I’m sorry Fraulein, I don’t often find myself at a loss for words.” 

Julia didn’t appear to hear him. For the first time since their introductions yesterday, she looked at him not with disdain or impatience, but with fear. It was the same gaze she cast upon Herr Reynard, and Eliot did not care at all to be the subject of it.

“Herr Waugh,” she said again, voice shaking as she smoothed her loose hair back from where it had been pulled from its chignon. “You cannot— you _mustn’t_ tell. Surely, you are a man of honor, surely you would find no pleasure in ruining me—”

Eliot coughed, her fear horrifying him. He stepped towards her, holding up a hand. “Fraulein, please. Don’t worry yourself.”

“I don’t know what it is you think you saw—”

“ _Fraulein—“_

“To be honest it was rather shocking for you to be barging into a lady’s private dressing room anyway, you could have witnessed truly _untold_ horrors—”

“Julia,” he tried, and the sound of her Christian name finally halting her babbling. “I have no ill will towards you, and until we can discuss this further, you will have to simply trust me. Shall we walk?”

Julia blinked, mouth parted in shock. She shook her head, as if in disbelief. 

“Whatever do you mean?"

“I mean we should go somewhere where our next conversation won’t be overheard.” He straightened his lapels, holding the door open for her. 

He had come here expecting an adventure, expecting to help a young artist in need. He swallowed back his fear as he realized just how much _help_ Julia Wicker required. 

“Come. And I think it would be wise for you to start calling me Eliot. I believe you’re about to find we have far more than our trade in common.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for more! All comments are clutched tenderly to our bosoms.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The road is rocky, but now we re-join Margo and Quentin in the blossom of late Spring, a thread of possibility hanging in the air...
> 
> Enjoy!

_ Vienna, Austria  
June, 1837 _

Quentin ground his teeth while he worked.

Margo looked up from the needlepoint in her lap, watching as Quentin played the same four measures of music that he had been fiddling with for the last hour. He played it once, twice, three times– eventually grimacing and striking the offending notes from the manuscript paper. 

He preferred to work in solitude, usually locking himself in the study after breakfast and not emerging until before dinner, but today he had left the door wide open, as if inviting her company. Not wishing to be alone either, she had settled on the narrow sofa on the study to spend her afternoon. 

His jaw clenched again, his teeth squeaking unbeknownst to him. Margo grimaced. 

“Q?” she said quietly as he crossed out another line.

He blinked, starting out of his stupor. 

“Hm?” He looked at her, smiling and flicking away a bit of hair that had fallen in front of his eyes. “Yes, my lady?”

Margo’s chest tightened. It was a game they played, the soft “my lady” that dropped from Quentin’s lips unprompted. She had more than enough times insisted that he call her by her given name, but it seemed that Quentin enjoyed using her title. Or rather, he enjoyed her reassurance of the informality between them. And perhaps, she mused, Quentin was simply a romantic soul, who enjoyed his opportunities to indulge in the chivalry of times past.

“You’re doing it again,” she said with a smirk, tapping her jaw. “You’re going to give yourself a headache.” 

“Oh–” he said, blushing slightly. It didn’t lessen how dashing he looked in his pale gray day jacket. “My apologies. Such an unseemly habit.”

She shook her head, picking up her needle again. “I only worry for the fate of your teeth.”

He laughed. “I suppose I should as well.” He glanced down at the work in her hands. “How is your design?”

“I’m not sure.” She grimaced, holding up the pillow cover to the light. “What do you make of my progress?”

Quentin squinted, leaning forward. Margo stifled a laugh as he pursed his lips. 

“Well– it is a lovely… garden turtle?”

“You fiend!” she exclaimed. “It’s an  _ angel _ . For Sophia’s nursery. The baby is due any day now.”

“Ah, yes,” Quentin amended. “I see it very clearly now.”

“I’m sure you do.”   
  
A beat of silence passed as Quentin dipped his pen into the inkwell resting on the side panel. He had curious hands— strong but restless. His fingers twitched and fidgeted around the pen, the nib hovering over the paper as he considered his next move. He decided against any new addition, turning towards her again. 

“Do you– forgive me but,” Quentin started. “Do you  _ enjoy  _ needlepoint?”

Margo laughed. “I wouldn’t say it’s my favorite pastime, but it does require skill. And the craftswoman is left with a tangible product, which can be rewarding.”

Quentin hummed his understanding. “I can understand that. If only this set of character works would make itself more tangible.”

Margo stood, setting aside her project to peer over Quentin’s shoulder. His writing was near illegible, the notes scattered all over the page with jagged lines connecting the melody to harmony, veins of sanity connecting the splay of music. It was something dense and complex, fugal in nature like the composers of old.

“Bauer will have my head,” he explained. “It isn’t exactly something that will fly off the shelves, not like the Fantasie.”

Margo blanched at the mention of the composition Quentin had meant as a siren call to bring Eliot home to them. He had labored over every note, every theme, and sent it like an exposed vein to Paris to call Eliot home. It had been a month since it’s completion, and they knew of its safe arrival in Paris since Eliot had performed to ecstatic crowds of thousands. Not that he had written to them of his triumph. The news had come by way flattering critics and Herr Bauer, Eliot and Quentin’s publisher, who only saw the many piles of coin he could make from its sales and Eliot’s fame. 

He knew not of how the news would set a spirit like Quentin’s into despair. 

“I will enjoy playing it, should he lack the necessary taste,” Margo assured him, laying a hand on his shoulder. He tensed, making her regret the motion immediately. 

It would seem as things became easier between them, they also became more difficult. 

She removed her hand, returning to the sofa to collect her embroidery. It was an hour or more yet until dinner, but she found her hand cramped from the intricate work of Sophia’s nursery gift. She had a new French novel upstairs, perhaps she would read for a spell and leave Quentin to his work. It was to be a rare evening at home, for even as the season wound down and Viennese elite returned to their country homes to collect themselves and bandage any wounds obtained during the winter festivities, the number of invites for dinner and dancing had not dwindled. There were still plenty in the city who wished to see the brave Quentin Coldwater who would dare escort a married lady of means in place of her husband. 

“Margo,” Quentin said, the teasing from earlier gone from his voice. 

“Yes?”

He set his pen down, leaning it against the inkwell. 

“I was only wondering if–” He stopped, swallowing. He made his hands busy, wafting the manuscript paper in the air to dry it. “If there had been any post today.”

Margo bit her lip, happy she was not meeting his gaze. 

“No, I’m afraid there was nothing.” 

A shadow passed over Quentin’s face, but it was quickly disguised. 

“Would you care for a walk?” he asked. “I think—some fresh air and exercise, always a good idea. I would love to share your company, if you feel inclined.”

Margo understood. The sorrow that so easily infected Quentin’s mind and body lurked always just around the corner, and she noticed that sometimes his best efforts to outrun it were of the physical kind. Still, that he did not seek to isolate himself, but rather reached out for the solace of her friendship, was a source of great relief. Margo agreed readily, and once Fen had located her shawl and Franz Quentin’s hat, they were off.

June had brought sunshine back to Vienna, marking Quentin’s first full year in the city. The cold morning sun had gone behind a cloud, however, and there was a slight chilly bite to the air despite June’s arrival. Quentin’s arm was warm around hers as they walked through the park. 

Margo watched as a nanny held two children by their small hands, obviously attempting to go on a civilized walk through the park with her charges. The children had other ideas, however, and Margo smiled as they broke away from her and ran onto the green lawn. A boy and a girl, she chased him in her short skirts until she tapped him on the shoulder and he began to chase her. The laughed and screamed in delight, and the nanny shook her head but watched them in their play nonetheless. The boy had a delightful mop of curly brown hair, and the girl’s done up in ringlets now limp and tangled from the adventures of the day– 

All at once a long forgotten daydream returned to her, a fantasy from her first months of marriage seeping into the scene. The little boy, his hair darker now, and his curls wilder, ran straight into the arms of his father. 

_ Aha,  _ Eliot declared, lifting the boy up onto his hip. He was dressed in a fine day suit, his smile as bright as the spring sunshine,  _ It looks like I’ve caught myself a little ragamuffin. Whatever shall I do with my prize?  _

_ Papa,  _ their son exclaimed,  _ You’ll spoil the game! I have to tag her ‘it,’ or Clara will win!  _

Their daughter, now hiding behind Margo’s skirts, giggled at this fortunate turn of events. 

_ Margo, my love, what do you say we hold him for ransom?  _

_ Honestly, darling, you’re as bad as the children.  _ Still, Margo couldn’t keep the smile from her lips at the sight of their son in Eliot’s arms—giggling as Eliot pressed a kiss to the top of his head. Eliot met her gaze, and she saw only pride and happiness— they had a  _ family  _ all their own— all on their own terms—

“Charming,” Quentin said beside her, drawing Margo out of her thoughts. She blinked, and the dream faded, leaving her with the cool reality of strangers’ children, and her husband far from home.

She swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. “Yes. It’s rare that you see children playing in this park.”

Quentin’s arm in hers at least, was still warm. “Seems a shame,” he said, his gaze on the little ones warm and fond. For a moment—only just—Margo could empathize with Eliot’s desire to set Quentin free. Paternal warmth glimmered just behind his eyes, a seed of possibility that would blossom given the opportunity. 

Margo had to turn her face away from such a sight. They strolled the path circling the lawn where the children played. 

The boy tripped and skidded along at the grass, staining his cream-colored knee breeches green. The nanny stood him up and gave him a scolding, leading both the children away. 

“You know, it was lonely, growing up in the country without many children my own age,” Quentin said. “But at least I was allowed to get as dirty as I pleased, as all children should.”

Margo smiled. “I wish you had been around to tell my governess that. I was learning how to sit with the ladies at tea by eight years old.”

Quentin shook his head, disapproving. They continued to walk, passing by a flower vendor. Quentin’s eyes lingered on the booth, but before Margo could comment, he spoke again. 

“Did you ever wish for children?” he asked, then ducked his head. “I—forgive me, that’s a deeply private question.”

Margo hummed. “It is,” she agreed. “But then, you live in our home, Quentin. Such matters would certainly affect you, whether or not you had a say in them.” 

“Yes.” Quentin paused, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. Perhaps he realized he’d stumbled onto a thornier topic than intended. “Eliot never spoke to me of— but still, I’ve wondered many times if you and your husband ever gave it any thought.” 

_ You and your husband _ . A careful phrasing on Quentin’s part, to be sure. Margo had to wonder whether Quentin felt as generous toward the idea of Eliot fathering children as Eliot did towards him, knowing that a baby in the house at the start of his and Eliot’s affair would have likely meant he would never have been invited to Vienna. 

Then again, perhaps Quentin didn’t have it in him to steer his thoughts with such self-interest, and was only making conversation.

“I’m the youngest daughter of an almost penniless Earl,” Margo chose to reply, leaving Eliot out of her response for now. “Having children was all I was ever considered to be useful for.”

Quentin’s brow furrowed. “I understand that, but what did  _ you _ want, Margo?”

With another man, Margo would have wrenched her arm away because  _ how dare he,  _ really? How dare he pry into so private a matter as she and Eliot’s marriage bed? Their family that was never to be? 

But with Quentin, it was only the curiosity of a friend, not the judgement of her father, or the gossip of Vienna. He made her wish that vulnerability was innate to her nature. 

She pursed her lips, pushing the words past them. “Eliot and I did give it thought, yes.”

It was a half answer, only brushing the heart of what she had been asked, but Quentin didn’t press her beyond that. 

Something inside her wished he had. 

Margo held tighter to Quentin’s arm, and glanced skyward, where the sky had darkened ominously. 

“We might yet see rain tonight,” she said. “We ought to head home to Frau Schiller’s hot supper before we’re caught in the downpour.” 

“As you say, my lady.” 

“It will be nice to be at home for once,” Margo continued as they turned back for the park entrance and the road home. “Perhaps we could play a hand of cards before bed.”

Quentin offered her a smile. “That sounds like a pleasant diversion, indeed.” 

They returned to the townhouse and a quiet meal lit by candlelight. They kept their conversation away from heavy topics, discussing the fashions of the recent round of dinner parties to the sounds of the light rain outside the dining room windows. They were nearly finished when Quentin set his wineglass down with greater purpose. 

“Margo, I feel as if I owe you an apology,” he began. “If earlier—regarding the issue of family, I mean—if I spoke out of turn—” 

“Pardon me, my lady.”

Margo looked up at the same moment as Quentin, surprised to see not Franz in the entrance to the dining room, but Fen, looking a bit flushed. She held out a note hastily folded on expensive stationary. 

“You have an urgent note from Lady Sophia. She is– well–” The lady’s maid glanced at Quentin, whose brow furrowed in concern at Fen’s agitation. 

“Let me see the note Fen, though I expect I know the news. Fetch Frau Schiller, with my apologies for what I’m sure will be a long night.” 

“Yes, my lady.”

Fen set the note in Margo’s hand and left them with a curtsey. 

“I’m sorry,” Margo said, remembering they were at the start of a solemn conversation. “Quentin, you were saying?” 

“It was nothing,” Quentin assured her. “Is everything well with Lord and Lady Hanson?” 

Margo scanned the note and then quickly cleared her plate of the last few bites of chicken. She would need her strength tonight. 

“Lord Hanson I can’t speak to,” she informed Quentin. “But Sophia is in the expected distress for this point in her…condition.”

Margo set her silverware aside as Quentin turned three shades of red. She rose from the table, glad that she and Quentin had agreed to a casual supper, as she wouldn’t need to change. 

“Forgive me, Quentin, I was looking forward to a game of cards after dinner, but my aunt is traveling and Sophia needs the support of a female relative in this great venture.” 

“Of course.” Quentin rose as well, formal as always. “If there’s anything I can do—” 

Margo laughed despite herself, imagining Quentin amid the womenfolk fluttering around Sophia during her labor. “A generous offer, Q, but unfortunately I think this is a social event from which you would certainly be barred.” 

Quentin smiled wryly. “One would only hope.” He clasped Margo’s hand briefly in his own. “Nevertheless, my thoughts go with you.” 

“I’m sure Sophia will be heartened by the sentiment.” Margo released Quentin’s hand and called into the hall. “Franz!”

Their footman appeared with all due haste. “My lady?”

“I’ll need the carriage, as quick as you please.” 

“Fen already spoke to me, my lady,” he replied, “It’s coming around now, and Frau Schiller will meet you out the kitchen door.” 

The rain had all but given up by the time Margo, Fen, and Frau Schiller had piled into the carriage and set off for the Hanson manor, leaving a dim and misty night for their backdrop. 

“Three healthy babes already, this will be no trouble at all,” Frau Schiller declared, cheerful as always and confident after delivering six children for her sister over the years. “I’m sure Lady Hanson is more in need of your feminine company than any serious aid in delivery.” 

“I pray you’re right,” Margo agreed, her stomach twisting with happiness for her cousin, but also nerves. Childbirth was still a great danger to a woman’s life, even in these modern times. 

Given the late hour there was little traffic through the streets of Vienna, and in only a quarter of an hour they were at the gate to Rolf and Sophia’s luxurious home. Frau Schiller led the way through the front door with Fen close behind. Margo’s larger skirts required a hand from the groom to step down from the carriage, but she was close enough to see both women dip a curtsey to a figure leaving the house, a far more richly appointed carriage than Margo’s own awaiting them. 

Margo drew closer to the lamps by the door, and recognized the most unwelcome figure. She did her best not to scowl. Margo was in little mood for Irene McAllister’s machinations tonight. 

“Lady McAllister, good evening,” She greeted her nonetheless. Irene raised her eyebrows at Margo’s approach. She had a servant holding a parasol, to keep the practically nonexistent rain off her intricately curled red hair. 

“Lady Waugh, what a surprise. And what a state of dress, given the time of the evening,” she said, eyeing Margo’s plain tawny calico in comparison to her own green silk. “Enjoying a casual dinner at home with Herr Coldwater, were you?” 

“I’m here to aid my cousin in her delivery, Lady McAllister,” Margo replied coolly, “Not attend a ball. I can’t say I considered whether my attire were formal enough to greet my forthcoming second cousin.” 

“Yes, poor Sophia, she went into labor right at the dinner table,” Irene drawled, as if the orders of Mother Nature had been some faux pas on Sophia’s part. 

“It’s curious,” she continued, “That Sophia would ask for you, given that you have no children of your own. Then again, perhaps your husband’s interests are more turned towards the opportunities of his travels than the mundanities of family life.” 

Margo ground her teeth, but ignored the slander against Eliot. Irene knew nothing of her husband’s fidelity, at least in the manner she was thinking. 

“Sophia is in need of her family, my lady, regardless of our childbirth experience,” she said. “It is more surprising to me that she did not ask you to remain, despite your two healthy children.”

Irene’s eyes narrowed. “I hardly think the chaos of another’s birthing bed appropriate to my station.”

“Indeed, Lady McAllister,” Margo agreed, “That is plain. If you will excuse me.” 

Sophia’s lady’s maid met her in the foyer after a footman took her bonnet and shawl. Fen and Frau Schiller were already ahead of her, making their way up the grand staircase to Sophia’s rooms. 

“Helga,” Margo greeted her, “How is Sophia?” 

“As well as can be expected, my lady,” Helga replied. “Lady Sophia insists a fourth child is not so momentous as the first, but she will be most glad of your companionship.” 

“I’m happy to be here,” Margo said as they climbed the stairs. “And what of Lord Hanson? I thought he might see me at the door at least. Or is he with his lady wife?”

Helga winced. “His lordship is out of the city on business, my lady. There was some assistance needed at his father-in-law’s estate. Word has been sent, of course.” 

“Of course.” Margo pursed her lips. Her uncle’s manor was only a few hours travel from Vienna, nevertheless it was no secret that Sophia was nearing her time. Still, as Sophia herself would admit, Rolf traveled often. 

“Was it urgent business?” she felt compelled to ask as they reached the top of the stairs. 

“My lady?” 

“Lord Hanson’s business,” Margo repeated. “I hope it was urgent.” 

Helga cast her gaze down as they neared the door to Sophia’s suite of rooms. 

“He deemed it so, my lady.” 

Margo frowned, but turned her attention to matters at hand as Helga led her into Sophia’s bedroom. 

“My lady,” she called, knocking on the door and allowing Margo to enter before her. “Lady Waugh is here for you.” 

“Margo.” Sophia, normally so aloof, was a pale and sweaty mess in her bed, her belly an intimidating mound beneath her nightgown. Margo went quickly to her cousin’s side. 

“Sophia, what a state. Is this the latest fashion now?” Margo asked, teasing one of Sophia’s limp curls where it was still pinned in place from her formal dinner attire. Her joke earned her a wry grin, interrupted by a gasp and a low groan as Sophia experienced a brief contraction. It did not last long, indicating Sophia was still in the early stages of labor.

“I’m sorry for the fuss,” she said once it had passed. “It will be some time yet, but my mother is abroad, and Rolf—” 

“It’s alright my dear,” Margo assured her, holding her hand between her own. “What is family for, but occasions such as this?” 

“Rolf is gone again,” Sophia said, her voice but a whisper of its usual volume and magnitude. “He wouldn’t stay, though I begged him. I told him his son would be born any day now but–” She swallowed. Margo squeezed her hand, the words piercing her own heart. “He didn’t listen. He never does.”

Margo bit her lip. Her relationship with her cousin was complicated, but in her Margo saw the life she could have led, the woman she could have been. Three male children with a fourth on the way, a house half as large as the palace itself, a title for herself and her children– and a husband who didn’t see fit to enjoy any of it with her. 

“Word has been sent,” she promised. “I’m sure Rolf will be here by morning light, with plenty of time to spare for pacing the halls and handing out cigars as a proud father ought.” 

Sophia smiled weakly, but Margo couldn’t be certain her cousin shared her faith. 

“In the meantime,” Margo continued, grasping Sophia’s forearm and rising to her feet. “We can make you far more comfortable. Fen and I will help you with your hair, and Helga can change the bed. With some fresh sheets you’ll be more likely to get a bit of sleep tonight, and I know Frau Schiller has brought her famous herbs to help with the rest when the time comes.” 

“And you’ll stay?” Sophia cast her legs over the side of the bed, leaning heavily on Margo as she rose to her feet. 

“Of course,” Margo promised. “We shall gossip all night as we did when we were girls.” 

It was a long, slow climb into the true throes of labor. In a clean bed with one of Frau Schiller’s miraculous teas Sophia managed a few fitful hours of sleep that night. Margo enjoyed far less, dozing beside Sophia in her petticoats until another contraction inevitably woke them both. Fen helped her dress again in the morning in time for the arrival of the doctor. Margo ground her teeth while the he poked and prodded Sophia and proved generally useless. She half thought Frau Schiller was going to wring the man’s neck when he tried to prescribe laudanum for the pain. Fortunately Sophia was not so impressionable as that. 

“I assure you, my lady, you’ll be much more comfortable,” he tried to convince her. 

“Thank you for your concern, doctor, but I have managed in the past and I shall manage now,” Sophia replied, her hair already soaked with sweat despite being braided neatly back from her face. “So long as you see nothing amiss, I believe we shall carry on in the natural course of things.” 

Margo had to hide her grin behind her hand as the doctor sputtered, but couldn’t find any reason to insist on his treatment. She looked up to see Helga waving for her attention at the door. Leaving Sophia under Frau Schiller’s watchful eye, she stepped out into the hall. 

“My lady,” Helga said, dipping a curtsey. She held out a folded note. Margo recognized the embossed  _ H _ of her family’s crest. “This has just come from Lord Hanson. It’s for Lady Sophia, but I thought given her delicate state...” 

Margo nodded, solemn. That a note had arrived instead of Sophia’s husband did not bode well for his hasty return to the city. 

“You did the right thing,” she said. Breaking the seal, she scanned the scant few lines Rolf had bothered with. It was as Margo had expected. Business had detained him etc etc, but he entrusted the health of his wife and child to God and the doctor’s wisdom. 

Margo pursed her lips. It was hardly an act of abuse, but too many men had little concern for the happiness of their wives. That Sophia had summoned enough love for her husband to even ask Rolf to stay after three children born this way was a testament to her tender heart.

“Lord Hanson will not be home today,” she informed Helga, who looked as unsurprised as Margo herself. “I shall tell convey the news to my cousin. In the meantime, I think some breakfast would be good. Something simple, porridge perhaps, for me, and for Lady Sophia something light and sweet to keep her strength.”

“Very good, my lady.” 

Margo passed the doctor on her way back into Sophia’s rooms, along with Frau Schiller on her way to the kitchens for some hot water and some breakfast of her own. 

“This child is taking his dear time,” she informed Margo. “It must be a son.” 

“All is well?” Margo checked. 

“As right as rain, my lady,” Frau Schiller assured her. “My sister’s eldest held us all up for three days once, and came out healthy as a horse.” 

“I hope we shan’t be waiting that long.” 

“From your lips to God’s ears, my lady. I’ve got bread rising back at home I’d rather not see spoiled.” 

Margo laughed, then stepped back into the bedroom. The window had been opened to let in some fresh air, and her cousin reclined against her pillows, her eyes alit with hope as Margo returned to her bedside. 

“I see you have a note. Has Rolf sent word?” Sophia asked. “Is he coming?” 

“Helga is going to bring us some breakfast,” Margo said, setting the note on the bedside table. “Do you think you could eat some stewed apple with honey? I can’t imagine even childbirth putting a stop to your sweet tooth.” 

“Margo.” 

Margo sat on the edge of the bed. “Rolf will be here when he can.” 

Sophia’s expression fell. “Which is to say, not today,” she guessed. “Not in time for the birth.” 

“No,” Margo agreed. “I’m sorry.” 

Sophia frowned, but held her chin high, haughty as the night of her debutante ball. 

“It’s nothing,” she insisted. “This is our fourth after all. It’s hardly even an occasion.” 

Margo reached out to hold her cousin’s hand, ignoring its tremor. “Just so.” 

She managed to cajole Sophia into a few bites of food as the morning dragged on, and inch by inch they climbed that seemingly insurmountable hill. Frau Schiller insisted on Sophia walking as much as she could stand, and Margo took on the duty of escorting her cousin on very slow and repetitive strolls about the room. It was a precarious task with Sophia’s balance off in the end stages of pregnancy and the unpredictability of her contractions. The latest one had them practically clinging to the mantelpiece, Fen standing nearby in case a saving catch needed to be made. 

“Damn my useless husband,” Sophia cursed as the contraction finished. They were drawing close together now, only three or four minutes apart. Sophia had spent the last hour or so expressing her displeasure on every topic one could imagine, from the heat of the room to the petty comments Irene had made at dinner the night before. Given her state, Margo felt she was rightly entitled to a bit of complaining, and welcomed the new theme of her spouse’s shortcomings. 

“All he cares about are his dogs and his damned accounting books,” she growled as Margo helped her back to the bed. “The number of evenings I spend trying to stay awake as he drones on about  _ taxes _ and  _ interest rates _ — it would drive any woman to madness, I swear, and yet—”

To Margo’s alarm, tears began to drip down Sophia’s cheeks. 

“And yet,” she continued, “I ask one thing, hardly a heroic effort, and he can’t—when I’m risking my very life—”

“Alright, now, I think you’re just a bit overtired,” Margo tried to soothe her, pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve to dab at her cheeks. Sophia continued to weep, the long night and constant pain pushing her beyond her normal reason. 

“It is a special occasion, isn’t it?” she asked, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Even a fourth child is still special, I hope.” 

“Of course, Sophia, don’t be silly,” Margo promised. “A child is always a joyful thing. Think of the christening you’ll have. It will be a grand celebration. Rolf will be the proudest father alive.” 

_ When there are people to impress _ , she didn’t add. 

“Eliot would be here, if it were you in my place,” Sophia rasped. 

“I pray that he would,” Margo agreed as she helped her take a sip of water to soothe her throat. In that moment she thought not only of Eliot, but of Quentin, and it brought a smile to her lips.

“Herr Coldwater offered to come and help,” she informed Sophia in a conspiratorial whisper. As she had hoped, that drew a laugh from her cousin. 

“He  _ didn’t.”  _

“He did, nerves and all,” Margo promised. “I had to tell him this was a private party. Hansons only. He seemed relieved at the rejection, but I thought it a chivalrous offer.” 

Sophia shook her head, a rueful smile at her lips. “Your husband’s student is a sweet man.” 

Margo nodded. “We are in his thoughts tonight. He promised.” 

Sophia’s mouth twisted. “Then he is a sweeter man than Rolf.” 

Margo opened her mouth to soothe her, but then Sophia cried out, and another wave was upon them. 

“Oh—I, Margo, this one feels different,” Sophia declared through clenched teeth. “I think— _ ah _ —I think the time may be finally drawing close—” 

Margo nodded, new vigour suddenly pumping through her veins. 

“I shall fetch the ladies, and we shall see this great task done.”

When all was said and done, they had no need of a doctor’s assistance. It was through Frau Schiller’s extensive experience and gentle encouragements that Sophia brought a healthy, crying baby boy into the world. 

“You did so well,” Margo said quietly, after Sophia had held her new son and he was taken away to have his first bath. “I don’t envy you the experience.”

Sophia laughed, the sound tired. “Not many women do. Though it will be your turn soon, cousin.”

Margo swallowed back her protests. Afterall, this was no time to reveal her own private sorrow. 

“Perhaps. Only time and God will tell.”

Sophia sought out her hand, giving it a squeeze. It had been so long since Margo had seen her cousin in such an informal state. It truly was as if they were girls in short skirts again, playing in the nursery while their mothers had tea in the next room. 

“You are lucky,” Sophia continued. “Eliot loves you so. It’s apparent to everyone and– anyone who scorns him is jealous.”

“None of that now, perhaps you’d fancy a nap before Frau Schiller returns with the baby?” Margo said, stroking her cousin’s damp curls back from her forehead. Her words were altruistic, but her intentions in truth were selfish. The mention of Eliot brought a pang to her chest. 

Sophia shook her head and squeezed her other hand, taking a wet, tearful breath. 

“A fourth son,” she said, gaze flicking up at the ceiling, as if she saw the future through the paint. “I can only hope there will be money enough for all of them. And love enough.”

“You have love enough for a dozen sons,” Margo promised. “Enough to spoil them and then some.”

Another smile. “You are very kind, Margo.” 

Margo hummed. “And you in a charitable mood, cousin. I don’t think there is a soul alive who would call me kind.” 

“Nor would you want it.” 

“Indeed not,” Margo agreed. “I must be feared in this city, or how will I get anything done?” 

They shared another laugh and then the door opened once more, revealing Frau Schiller and the newest and littlest Lord Hanson. 

“There you are, my lady.” Frau Schiller plopped the swaddled baby boy into Sophia’s waiting arms. “He’s strong, this one, like a bull. Nearly took my finger clean off in the grip of his fist.”

“He’ll be stubborn, no doubt, like his father,” Sophia said, exhausted but pleased as she cradled him close to her breast. “Another fair-haired one. Will any child inherit our dark curls, cousin?”

“It’s a travesty,” Margo said. “Have you decided on a name?”

“Rolf and I thought about ‘Johannes,’ after his Grandfather, but nothing was decided.” She looked down at his tiny face, scrunched and wrinkled from his first bath. “I’ll wait for him to make our final decision.”

Margo was surprised that Sophia could still feel so generous towards her absent husband, but as she slowly backed away, letting mother and child properly bond, she realized that the subtleties of her cousin’s marriage was not for her to understand. Rolf was not a cruel man, if a bit clueless when it came to the desires of his wife, but no doubt with a kiss and twinkle in his eye he would be forgiven. 

Or else Sophia would find herself living in a cold house. 

Once they were settled, Margo gave her cousin a kiss goodnight and left with an exhausted Fen and Frau Schiller in tow. 

“All’s well that ends well, my lady,” Fen said as they piled into the carriage. “And what a beautiful baby boy he is. Anyone should be lucky to have such a son.”

Frau Schiller was less than subtle when she kicked Fen’s ankle. 

“Oh! I beg your pardon, my lady, I didn’t mean–”

Margo shook her head, smiling kindly at her maid. 

“Don’t worry yourself, Fen. I’m ecstatic for Sophia. Her good fortune warms my heart.”

Despite her forgiveness, Fen didn’t speak for the remainder of their short journey, obviously frightened of again putting her foot in her mouth. Margo didn’t particularly mind the silence, staring out the window as Vienna rolled by them. The houses changed from mansions and manors to the familiar row of townhouses that signalled their neighborhood. That same vision had made her heart flutter in the first year of her marriage, when Eliot had announced that he had procured enough funds for them to purchase their own home. 

Such hopes they had then, when Eliot had kissed her and carried her over the threshold. Such plans they had made together. 

“My lady?” Frau Schiller said as they exited the carriage. “Would you care for something to eat? I could have a tray sent up in no time at all.”

Margo thought on it, but even with her empty stomach she didn’t want for food. 

“I think not.” Franz let them in, the chill of the evening giving way to the warm house. “You have done enough today, I should think. We couldn’t have done it without you.”

Frau Schiller, nodded, obviously pleased, before taking her leave to return to the kitchen. Quentin emerged from the study as soon as she rounded the corner, still dressed in his day suit. 

“You’re back. I was–” He looked pale, his eyes worried. “Is all well? And Lady Sophia?”

Margo smiled and nodded, happy to offer good news. “She’s healthy and in good spirits. And now has another son.”

Quentin’s somber look turned to a genuine smile. “That’s wonderful news. I should think they would be in great relief to be out of it now.”

Margo nodded, averting her gaze. She could hear the echo of her cousin’s sadness in her ears, and the frank way she had spoken about Rolf’s absence. 

“Indeed,” she said, saved from further explanation as Fen appeared to take her hat and shawl. 

“I’m sorry,” she continued, turner her tone lighter. “You must have been quite put out today. I didn’t think that in taking Frau Schiller that you would be left without a cook.”

He smiled and shook his head, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “She was certainly more needed in your service. I’m more than capable of raiding the kitchen, though I did miss the mealtime conversation.”

“I shall take that as a compliment,” Margo said, untying her bonnet. “Thank you, Fen.”

“Will you be retiring now, my lady?” Fen asked, Margo’s shawl over her arm. “I could turn down your bed.”

She handed her the bonnet. “I think not yet. I should like to…” She glanced at Quentin, still leaning against the wall, but examining the wallpaper as if it held religious truth. “Not just yet.”

“Very good, my lady. I’ll have this pressed for you.”

“Thank you, Fen.”

Fen nodded and hurried back up the stairs, leaving Margo and Quentin alone. 

Quentin straightened, stepping towards her. 

“Sorry but–” His voice was low, and his hair loose about his shoulders. She could imagine how he must have spent the afternoon running his fingers through it waiting for her return. “Margo, are you quite alright?”

Margo furrowed her brow. “Of course, why should I not be?”

She inhaled as he raised a hand and laid it upon her cheek, sweeping away a strand of hair that had fallen loose. It was smooth, an afterthought, albeit an extremely familiar one. His eyes were without design, kind and calm and concerned, as if he were worried for a friend. 

Quentin was her friend, of course. One of her very dearest, by now. But the hand of a friend did not typically leave her skin so over-warm. 

Weakened from the excitements of the day, she leaned into the soft touch.

“Your eyes are red,” he said, as if stating a grave fact.

“It’s nothing,” she responded. “Only a long day, but one with a good ending, at least.”

He nodded, his lips parting, hesitating to speak. He blinked, lifting his hand away and clenching it in a loose fist by his side. 

“Can I pour you something to drink?” he said after a beat. “Something to calm your nerves before bed?”

She swallowed, the heat of his touch still present on her cheek. 

“Yes, alright.”

They settled in the parlor, in front of the remains of a dying fire. Despite it being early in June, it had been a damp and chilly day, and Quentin must have asked for the fire to be lit earlier in the day. The thought was strangely quaint, and it warmed her to think that Quentin was comfortable enough to treat their house like a home. 

He poured her a glass of wine, dark and rich in the dimness of the evening. It was one of her favorites. She wondered if he knew.

“Here you are.” Quentin handed her the glass, sitting down next to her on the sofa. “Though you needn’t stay up on my account, should you be tired. I can’t imagine you slept well last night.”

“I am tired,” Margo admitted, the echoes of Sophia’s painful birthing screams still fresh in her mind. “But I don’t feel the pull of sleep just yet, rather a need for quiet and peace.”

Quentin smiled. “What a lovely turn of phrase.”

“Twenty-four hours at the side of a birthing bed would leave anyone feeling poetic, I’m sure.” 

Quentin laughed softly as Margo took a welcome sip of her wine. 

“Did you find time to complete your new piece?” She asked. 

Quentin shrugged, his smile turning into a tense line. 

“A line here and there. I found myself distracted.”

“By what?”

“Nothing in particular.” The embers let out a loud  _ pop  _ as the fire continued to die in the grate. “Only that— well, composing seems a silly pastime when such serious matters need tending to.”

“You mean childbirth?”

She expected him to blush again, but he didn’t, as if his shyness the day before had been for Fen’s benefit more than his own.

“Yes. In these situations a man and his art are a rather useless pair.”

Margo smiled despite his self-depreciation, reminded again of Rolf’s absence at his wife’s side today. Quentin’s concern sat in stark contrast. 

“So I abandoned the fugue around lunchtime, but—“ he fidgeted his hands in his lap, running one through his hair. “I started something different. Completely new. And was able to finish it before you arrived home.”

“Can I hear it?” She asked. 

He smiled, shaking his head. “Not just yet. It isn’t quite ready.”

It was a phrase Quentin had told Eliot often. Many a time she had witnessed Eliot’s humorous attempts to cajole, bribe, or kiss the music out of Quentin when he held such reservations. For a wild moment, she wondered if she had such a power.

“It’s been a long day, Q,” she said, settling back into the cushions, cradling her glass. “I should like to hear something beautiful, if you are a willing artist.”

Quentin hesitated, but set his wine glass on the side table and rose to his feet. ”A preview wouldn’t hurt, I suppose.”

He stood, and her heart ached as he took his place at the piano. It had only taken Eliot one afternoon to fall silly in love with Quentin once he had played for him, alone in their Leipzig townhouse while Margo had gone on very boring calls. She had known then that Eliot had been trying to woo Quentin, but what if she had stayed that day? What if she and Eliot both had fallen in love with the quiet man who played the piano like an angel from heaven?

“I’m unsure of some of the harmonies,” Quentin said, interrupting her thoughts. “So forgive me any clunkiness.”

“I hold no judgement at the ready, Q, I promise.” 

Margo closed her eyes and let her thoughts dissipate as Quentin began to  [ play ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4YSmhDtMSfQ) . His touch was soft, as if he stroked the keys instead of merely playing them. Each note floated through the air without disruption, only the barest need for vibration. The melody was simple, something a child might sing while walking to school, but the slowness of the tempo and the richness of the harmonies brought it through adolescence and into the pangs of adulthood. It yearned, and reached its arms out, open and tender. 

She inhaled shakily as he finished. Her shoulders, tight from the labors of the day, felt loose and free, as though Quentin’s melody had lifted a burden from her. She had never heard something so soft and effective that used such little time. 

He turned, waiting for her reaction. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. 

“It’s very short, I know,” Quentin started babbling. “Bauer will probably demand that it be longer—“

“Don’t,” she interrupted. “It is complete just as it is. I forbid you add a single note.”

He smiled, relieved. “I wanted to capture a moment. A daydream.”

_ “ Traumerei _ _,”_ she said. “Dreaming.” 

“Yes. That might even be the title, now that I have heard you say it.”

A moment passed, the silence almost turning to awkwardness between them. Quentin looked down at his lap, and then back up to meet her eyes. 

“I missed you today,” Quentin said, as if the admittance was a great labor. “I was thinking of you, of the trials you must be going through at Lady Sophia’s home and I indulged in a daydream— I wrote it about missing Eliot but I also was— missing you. It’s silly.” He laughed at himself. “Silly that I could miss someone who is only a carriage ride away,”

It was a sudden confession, the words painting a very becoming blush on his pale cheeks. She stood, and his eyes widened as she approached, as if she were about to chastise him. 

“Move over.” She tapped him on the shoulder. 

He did so immediately, making room for her on the bench. It was not a narrow bench, its width seating both Eliot and Quentin both many a time, but with the breadth of her skirts Quentin’s leg pressed against hers, from knee to hip. 

“Irene McCallister was at Sophia’s today. There was a small dinner party underway when Sophia went into labor,” Margo explained, absentmindedly playing a few arpeggios.

“Oh?” Quentin asked, concerned, but looking relieved at the change of subject.

Margo shook her head. “It was not such a scene as it was at the performance of your concerto. She only caught me on her way out, as it was.”

She moved from the empty exercises to a fragment of one of Eliot’s pieces, an older work he hadn’t performed since the early days of their marriage.

“She made some sort of comment about Eliot’s tour, of course, seeking to hurt me. As if my husband was truly a low-born cad all along, indulging in my naivete and working to destroy the Viennese aristocracy from the inside.”

Her hands stilled.

“She was an acquaintance of Lord Fogg, Eliot’s first mentor,” She explained. Quentin nodded knowingly. Eliot must have mentioned the old man who had shaped and molded him as a child into the artist he would one day become. “Eliot’s humble roots are not a mystery, he has never sought to hide his origins, but the McCallisters are of one of the oldest families in Vienna. Sharing meals with Eliot, having to hear his name announced alongside my own at court… it brings her nothing but rage. She would bring shame to herself rather than let me forget that I married beneath my station.”

She played another figure. Quentin’s gaze on her was curiously soft. 

“It’s all nonsense of course,” she said, not wanting to seem in agreement. “Old families such as the McCallisters smell the change coming to our world, and know that they will not always rule it. My successful marriage to Eliot only confirms such suspicions.” 

_ If it is so successful then why did Eliot seek to escape it?  _ The simple truth hung unspoken in the air. 

Quentin cleared his throat. 

“She might be above you in title, but she is beneath you in poise, Margo.”

Margo shook her head, laughing. “Oh do go on, Q, you know I live to be flattered.”

Quentin didn’t take the bait, his smile still fond and serious. 

“It isn’t only that. You are– that is to say– you—“ He said, voice almost a whisper. “You demonstrate strength of character I myself have never known. To stand tall

in the face of such adversity and not only bear it but  _ prosper  _ in spite of it.”

“I’m not a heroine from one of Eliot’s novels, Q.”

“No.” He shook his head. “No, you are far more real than that.”

She turned away, the intensity of his gaze near overwhelming. She began to play again. The same piece, but this time a different section. More fast paced,  [ rollicking ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LJEJapSGCwU) . 

“What is that?” Quentin asked. “It sounds like Eliot, but I’ve never heard it before.”

Margo played a few more measures, stopping when her fingers tripped on one of the lengthy trills. Such flourishes were meant for Eliot’s hands, not hers.

“It’s from one of our many pilgrimages, Italy in particular.” She skipped ahead to the next melodic section. “It was three months into our marriage, and our honeymoon was also Eliot’s first European tour. He had so many performances, back to back, without respite. One Friday he woke me with a kiss and instructed Fen to dress me heartily, for we were going on an adventure.”

“That sounds like Eliot,” Quentin said, fondness coloring his voice. 

“Yes,” she said, smiling. “We were in Venice, and had scarcely seen the city. He made me wear a blindfold to the canal, and surprised me with a gondola ride through the city. I was enchanted. I had begged my father to be allowed to visit Italy when I was a girl, but he had little care for the whims of his daughters. Eliot made certain that I saw and experienced everything.”

She played the final expression of the theme, letting her eyes fall closed, the fading, rocking chords like bells in a faraway tower. 

“Later that evening, once we returned, we sat together in his study and composed this together, naming it after our perfect day. Short, lovely, and scenic.”

She opened her eyes, and Quentin watched her, his eyes shining in the candlelight. 

“Eliot made certain that I never wanted for romance. It was as if I received a second courtship once we were married,” she said softly, folding her hands in her lap. “That first year, when we left Vienna– it was heaven.”

She fiddled with the ring on her left hand, twisting it against her skin. 

“When I spoke to Irene today, it hurt to hear about Eliot’s absence, as if I had to experience it all over again,” Margo said, the meanness of her enemy’s words a far away echo in her mind. They couldn’t hurt her now, not with Quentin’s warmth beside her. “But… in truth I am grateful for my encounter with her today.”

Quentin’s brow furrowed. “How so?”

“Earlier you said that Sophia and Rolf must both be relieved at their good fortune in another son,” she started. “But– the truth of it is that Rolf did not even care to be present while his wife risked her life in giving him another child.”

“Not present,” Quentin repeated. “You mean in the room?”

“In the city,” Margo clarified, validated by Quentin’s frown. “He left on business, knowing Sophia’s time was close at hand.” 

“Oh. That is...I suppose that is often the way of things.” Quentin brushed an absent finger over the piano keys, but stopped short of depressing them. “But I can’t say it is the choice I would make, were I to be a father.” 

“I had imagined not.” Margo’s gaze followed the movement of Quentin’s hands. They were quite fine, and somehow so different from Eliot’s. “Anyways, even though Eliot is gone now, on some fools errand to sacrifice himself, I find myself grateful that at least he left thinking that he was sparing us some sort of pain, rather than causing it.”

“Better to have the pains of love than the hollowness of indifference.” Quentin met her eye as he spoke, and it was a moment of gazing into a spiritual mirror. 

“Just so,” she agreed, standing and making her way back to the sofa. Quentin followed, the magnetism between nearly them a third occupant in the room. 

The settled together as they had before, with Quentin only a fraction closer than he had been, the line of his body turned toward her, as if waiting for her next words. 

“Irene is also bitter than she didn’t receive an invite to our wedding,” Margo said, taking her glass back in hand and returning to safer subjects. “It was the event of the season, shrouded in scandal and romance, and she wasn’t deemed important enough.”

Quentin laughed, leaning his elbow against the back of the sofa and propping his head up on a hand. 

“Eliot always spoke of it fondly,” He mused. “Your wedding day. How beautiful you looked on the altar, and how lucky he felt to be marrying you.”

She smiled, and his gaze came to rest on her ring, resting on her hand in her lap. She held it up to the light. It was a simple ring, only a gold band with a single, small diamond in a circular casing. Eliot hadn’t then the funds for a more magnificent ring at the time of their engagement and when he had offered to purchase her something more lavish after his first tour she had refused, the small ring holding too much sentimental value to be parted with. 

She pulled it from her finger, holding it out for Quentin to take. 

“Would you like to try it on?”

Quentin laughed, and Margo was relieved to see his smile again. He took the ring from her, his fingers warm and the skin dry against her palm. He slid the ring onto his littlest finger, only reaching the top of his second joint, holding it out in front of him to inspect it. It caught the light from the candle sitting on the side table, throwing a glint across the room that danced on the wall. 

“I’m sure you had a beautiful wedding,” he said, sounding like he fought to keep his voice even. He lowered his hand. “The closest I came to marriage was Alice and…” He stopped, fiddling with hands in his lap. “I managed to muck that up as well– albeit not as quickly as I have with Eliot.”

He pulled on the ring finger of his right hand. In profile, Margo could see the tense line of his jaw. 

“Would you tell me of it?”

Quentin sighed. “We were engaged to be married in the spring of our twenty-third years. Too young, truly, both of us, even though Alice’s mother criticized her for being an old maid. It had been… consuming, to say the least.” He swallowed hard. “We were both so similar, too demanding of each other and, I suppose that was our undoing.”

She nudged his knee with her own, an encouragement.

“What happened?”

He shrugged. “Alice wanted to break the engagement. I believe she said that she needed to breathe a moment– she said we would both suffocate if we carried on as we were. I refused to see reason and I— I was foolish. ...So foolish.”

His hands stilled. “I had been in Zwickau then, visiting my father, but I took off for Leipzig as soon as I received her letter. I pleaded with her, even though in my heart I knew that it was the right choice. I was so afraid of being left alone. Afraid that I was destined for unhappiness. That my mind would foil any attempt in that direction, should I find it, and thought I needed to cling to her. But she left me, as was her right, stalwart in her decision and that night I… I went to a bridge.”

Margo’s heart plummeted to her stomach. She wanted him to look at her, but his words came so quickly, she thought that maybe he needed to say them first. 

“I was drunk, out of my mind with heartbreak. I had already been in an episode of melancholia from my father’s sickness and Alice had no idea that her decision would trigger such a… Well. I brought my foot up to the lip of the bridge and thought to jump but... I slipped,” he said, shame coloring his voice. “My right hand was caught in the railing, and I smashed several bones in my fingers.”

Margo glanced at the hand he had been favoring, the hand that had led them here.

“I hobbled home, and in my shame I didn’t seek the help of a doctor for several days. Even after I did, it healed, but as soon as I was able to play the piano I knew. I realized I lacked the full facilities and when I returned to the doctor, he told me the damage was permanent. Paralysis, all the way from my ring finger to my wrist. It’s why I don’t play Mozart anymore, or anything with such fast passagework.”

“I never told Eliot that.” He shook his head. “I was afraid that… he always thought that he could fix me, keep me content, but he doesn’t know I was already broken before he met me. And maybe a suicide attempt would be too much. Too much of a weakness for him to bear.”

“Q,” she said softly, bringing her hand to rest over his in his lap. He didn’t protest. “I’m so sorry.”

“He’s a good man.” His thumb stroked over her knuckles. “I also thought that if I told him he might think me an obligation, so fearful of hurting me that he would sacrifice his own feelings at the altar of my own weak mind– that would destroy me.”

“It would only be because he loves you so,” Margo said. 

Quentin shrugged. “Perhaps.”

He looked at their hands together in his lap. He turned hers over, lightly tracing his fingers over her palm and then to the area at the base of her third finger, where her wedding ring had sat. The skin was lighter there without the ring. She shivered. 

“I see now that it was my love that drove him away,” he mused, almost as if he were speaking to himself. “My love for him, my want of him as more than a mere distraction, was the true weakness of my character.”

“You cannot believe that he doesn’t love you.”

Quentin shook his head. “No, that isn’t it. I believe him. He doesn’t believe me. I almost took my own life once because Alice fell out of love with me– but now,” he laughed darkly. “I have the man I love and he loves me in return, only he thinks himself unworthy of me. Me–” he looked to the ceiling, frowning. “He thinks he has taken my life from me, some sort of idealized version of it, at least. He doesn’t realize that with his love I found new life, new purpose.”

“It was the day after the opera.” Quentin’s voice was hollow. “I wanted to make him see how I loved him. I told him how I thought of him as a spouse, as someone I wished I could openly cherish before God and the world. I told him of the future I wish we could have, if our love was accepted in the open. I said how I wanted to have a family with him– children–”

His voice choked off, and he looked up at her, slightly aghast, his face reddening. 

“That is not to say,” he stumbled. “That is not to say I wished you gone, Margo–”

Margo squeezed his hand, keeping her voice gentle. “I’m not offended, I understand what you mean.”

He inhaled, and a shudder ran through him. “I didn’t mean to deepen his despair. I thought to make him see how I would never want another life than the one we shared together, but. He didn’t see it that way.”

“Oh, Q. It wasn’t your fault.”

He pursed his lips. “Who can take the blame, then? He does not long for the same with me— so my words were only self-indulgence, a crucial error that has cost us the man we love–”

“Eliot cannot father children,” Margo interrupted. 

Quentin blinked. “What?”

Margo nodded, conscious of their still-clasped hands. 

“The other day you asked if we had ever thought of having children– we spent the entire first year of our marriage trying, and failing. The doctor prescribed me ungodly amounts of beetroot to eat and herbs to sprinkle in our marriage bed, but even he couldn’t find anything wrong with me. When Eliot decided to go to the doctor, it was more of a formality. We never thought– never even imagined that– Well. Suffice to say, talk of families and of children is a sensitive topic for Eliot.”

She stopped, her tongue thick in her mouth. She had only sipped at her wine, the glass almost still full on the table in front of her. 

“Margo, you don’t have to–”

“But I want to.” She snapped her gaze up to look at him straight on. “I want to tell you. I have kept this secret for so long, as if it only belongs to Eliot, as if it is not also my own great sorrow.”

He placed a hand on her back, speaking softly. “That you cannot have children with Eliot?”

She shook her head, tears springing to her eyes. 

“No. Being childless is not a path I thought I would take, but my greatest sorrow is that  _ Eliot  _ thinks that I love him less for it. Rolf did not think it important to attend the birth of his son, but Eliot has spent every day since the doctor told him trying to make amends for something that is no fault of his own, as if he is a deficit of a husband, as if I give him more than he has given me. As if I–” She stopped, pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve and grasping it in her hand, making no moves to wipe her face. 

“He would not have another person he loves go without something he believes they want– or deserve. Eliot left me as well, Quentin. He thinks himself a burden to us,” she whispered. “As though he is not— not the great love of my life—” 

Quentin’s arm slid over her back and then she was turning and falling into his arms, her shoulders heaving with great sobs. He held her, shuffling closer and rubbing circles in her back, whispering words of comfort against her hair. Her tears stained his collar, but she pushed closer, let him hold her tighter.

After some time, she lifted her face, knowing she must look a sight– but Quentin’s eyes did not hold shock or disgust. His hands slid up her arms, and came to gently rest on her face, his thumb tracing a circle on her cheek where the tears had fallen. They cooled against her skin now, contrasting with the warmth of his hands. Her breath came out as a shudder. 

“Eliot loves you,” he said, his voice as quiet as the dying embers in the hearth. “I knew from the first moment we met that you were so special to him, in a way I could never be. He once told me—“ for some reason, Quentin blushed. “He told me that your happiness was of the utmost importance to him. And in my youth I had been a jealous romantic— always wanting to be first in someone’s heart— but when Eliot told me that I could only think of how  _ right  _ it was. His love for you is something beautiful.”

He surveyed her tenderly. Margo thought she might melt under such a gaze. 

“I miss the way I could watch him love you. I miss how we were–”

She pressed a hand to his chest. His heart beat hard. 

“I know.” Her other hand wound between his, resting behind his neck. She felt entangled with him, touched,  _ seen,  _ for the first time in months. “We three, together. It was…”

“Everything,” Quentin breathed.

They stayed like that for a moment, and then Margo felt the slightest resistance, as if Quentin were about to pull away, or thought he  _ should  _ pull away.

“Quentin,” she said, her voice cracking and her hand a light squeeze at the back of his neck. That made him sigh, eyes fluttering closed. “You have kissed my husband, as I have kissed your lover.”

Quentin whined, the sound desperate and deep in his throat. “I miss him so, Margo. If we were to…”

His right hand was firm on her waist, pressing into her stays, fitting the curve of her perfectly. When had it moved there? Her head spun. 

“If we…” 

Her words were mere air, thoughts left formless in the space between them. He had gotten so close, close enough that it was easy to lean forward and press a dry kiss to the corner of his lips. He inhaled softly– from shock or pleasure, she did not know. She backed away, surveying his expression. 

“Margo…” he entreated, his voice a plea. He opened his eyes, and they were liquid, dark with emotion and desire.

His other hand rose to cup her face once more. He still wore her ring on his littlest finger. Eliot’s ring. The metal was warm against her cheek. 

“What is it, Q?” Her voice came out vulnerable. More pleading than she had meant. “What do you want?” 

She brushed a hand over his face. He shivered, eyes falling closed. 

“Kiss me. Please.”

And in that moment Margo knew. She knew why Eliot couldn’t help but fall in love with such a man. 

She gave him what he asked for, and Quentin whimpered into her mouth, parting his lips like the sweetest surrender. He tasted like wine– like comfort and solace and Margo couldn’t help but shift forward, just a little more. Couldn’t help but let her hands wander as they kissed. Over his shoulders, down his chest…

Her hands slips under the lapels of his jacket to thumb at his waistcoat. He backed away, and Margo panicked, suddenly denied his lips, but he only shrugged his jacket off of his shoulders, letting it fall to the arm of the sofa. 

He surged forward, capturing her lips with more intention this time. He cradled the back of her neck with a hand and she allowed him to deepen the kiss this time, their tongues meeting in her mouth. Briefly, wildly, it reminded Margo of fucking. Or of the slide of Eliot’s mouth against her center. 

He kissed like– 

Well, he kissed like someone who was accustomed to being kissed by Eliot. 

She laced her fingers between the buttons of his waistcoat and pulled, falling backwards and letting him fall on top of her in turn. He came willingly, breaking the kiss only to reach for a pillow to set behind her head. Margo’s heart ached; she set her lips and teeth against the column of his throat and he moaned, bracing one forearm next to her head to take his weight and the other a firm grip at her waist, then sliding over her ribs and finally settling at the curve of her breast. 

She sighed, pulling his face back to hers to give him another kiss, one for which he rewarded her with another moan against her lips and a squeeze to her breast. His thumb traced the curve of her and through two petticoats and her bodice managed to find the sensitive peak of her nipple. Without breaking their kiss, she reached down and adjusted the volume of her skirts so he could fully settle between her thighs. As if on instinct, he pressed his hips forward and she gasped to feel the hardness of him through his trousers. Still against her petticoats, but it was there and indisputable— he wanted her. 

“My lady…” he breathed against her lips. 

The thought, and the brokenness of his voice, its reverence, made her wild. It was as it had been in the days after Eliot’s departure, when they had woken up beside each other and Quentin had looked at her as if… as if he were seeing her for the very first time. 

His mouth blazed a trail away from her lips and down her throat, his kisses edged with the faintest bite of teeth. A low groan escaped her and she wrapped her legs around his hips, pressing him against her center in earnest. Fire coursed through her as she thought of him undressing her, unlacing her corset and seeing her in ought but her chemise. His hands were broad and large, and his mouth hot and soft, would he want to see her in total nakedness? And be with her in a similar state? Would he see to her pleasure, as Eliot did? Would he ask for more? 

For perhaps the first time in her life, Margo felt ready to give.

She moaned as Quentin kissed her again, and as if reading her thoughts, his hand crept under her frock, up her calf, fingering the clocking of her stockings and then the ribbons that secured them beneath her drawers, dangerously close to her bare thigh. 

Quentin kissed like Eliot, but his hands were entirely his own. Except… once more she felt the ring, a warm and foreign slide against her thigh. 

Dread, cold and icy, plunged through her stomach. 

“Stop—“ she broke their kiss, pressing a hand to his chest. “Quentin for God’s sake we must  _ stop _ .”

Quentin pulled away immediately, mouth open, hair a mess from the pull of her fingers. His hand still graced her breast, fingers curling into neckline under her corset. 

His gaze sharpened, and he jerked away, as if the touch of her burned him. 

“Margo, my lady, I’m— I apologize.” He was on his feet in a second. “I was— that was— completely—“

She sat up slowly as he babbled, smoothing her skirts and swallowing hard around the taste of him still in her mouth. Somehow, her hair had come free of its style, half around her ears and half down her back now. 

“I was simply overcome and the  _ wine _ and I do so apologize, my lady—“

He had barely touched his glass of wine.

“Q.”

He stopped pacing, finally looking at her. His necktie hung loose at his throat. When had she done that?

“It’s as you say,” she said softly. “Only a moment in time. We’ve perhaps had too much wine— and too much talk. I. I think it would be best if we went to bed.”

Quentin nodded furiously, his face so red it approached purple. “Yes, my lady. You are right, my—“

She sighed. “It’s Margo, Quentin.”

He stopped, smoothing his hair back from his forehead. She couldn’t bear to look upon the shame that twisted his features. She closed her eyes against it. 

She heard a slight  _ plink  _ of metal against wood. Her ring, set on the side table. 

“Good night, then, Margo.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

Margo only nodded, the sound of his footfall against the rug the only indication of his departure. She finished her wine, the dryness if it burning her throat on the way down. It didn’t help. When she set the glass down, the taste of him still lingered on her lips. 

The worst part was that she was relieved. She didn’t want it to fade. The taste or the memory. Certain she was alone in the study, Margo allowed herself one deep, shaking breath. A different woman might have allowed herself a sob, perhaps a few tears, but that woman was not her. She swallowed past the tightness of her throat and rose to go and dress for bed. 

It had been a long day, and she was clearly in need of rest. 

Fen was waiting for her in her room, draping Margo’s nightgown over a chair in front of the fire. 

“It’s such a chilly night, my lady, I thought you might like some warmth while you slept.”

“Thank you, Fen.” Her voice shook slightly as she unfastened the necklace at her throat. 

Fen’s brow furrowed in concern. “Are you alright, my lady?”

She nodded. “Indeed. Only tired. I imagine you are as well, from all the excitement.”

Fen didn’t pry.

Margo slept fitfully, dreaming and waking all night long. Flashes of Eliot had often chased her lately in dreams, but now Quentin was a flicker in the corner of her eye as well. Warm smiles, broad hands. All things sweet and forbidden, or at least denied to her here in the world of the half-awake. 

Upon waking, she dressed quickly and without much fuss. She had her mind resolved. She and Quentin would have to talk, that was all. They were friends. Friends could be honest with one another. 

Margo set her thoughts on this path, and forbid herself the memory of Quentin’s sweet mouth open against her own. 

When she entered the breakfast room Quentin stood next to the table, grasping the back of a chair and looking positively green in the pale morning light. His hair was pulled back and he wore his plainest suit. 

“Good morning.” Quentin’s eyes, so warm in her regard lately, were cast low.

Margo nodded her hello, circling around to have a seat at the table. He made no moves to sit. 

“Did you sleep well?” he asked. 

She eyed Franz as he poured her usual cup of coffee. The poor footman was doing his best to not look at anyone, the tension in the room so obvious.

“Well enough.”

Franz laid down a few serving utensils, and then took the empty coffee pot and left, leaving them alone. Margo braced herself, setting down her cup. 

“Q–”

“I spent last night giving it a great deal of thought,,” Quentin interrupted. His tone of voice implied that he was doing everything he could to sound neutral. “And I think it would be best if I were to take a few nights at the inn.”

Margo laughed, once, a sudden rush of anger burning through her chest. It was an outburst of which her mother would not approve. A little mean. But then, she had reminded Sophia, Margo wasn’t kind.

“Please, Margo,” Quentin continued. “Wouldn’t it be best, for the sake of friendship, if we were to both—I don’t know—sort out our minds?” 

“‘Sort out our minds?’ Is that what they call it these days?” She said, barely looking up as she served herself some bread. “I had hoped to have a different conversation, but I see you’re having a moral crisis, Herr Coldwater.” 

“I’m not sure what other conversation you imagined we would have.”

“Hardly a breakfast table panic over  _ infidelity _ , of all things,” Margo spat, “Eliot has strayed farther than any man in history. The proof stands in front of me, and I welcome it. I see you would hold me to a different standard in his stead.”

Quentin stood a little taller, set his jaw harder. Pride. Quentin was not a man of mental strength, but he would not be bullied. 

“My lady, I think you know that this instance is different.”

She raised her eyebrows. 

“I fail to see how. On our last tour Eliot must have fucked half the male population of St. Petersburg, and I would have been free to do the same with his blessing.” Quentin finally flinched. “Yet you are here, and apparently things are different. I do hope you’ll enlighten me, Reverend Coldwater.”

Quentin clasped his arms behind his back. 

“I’ve upset you.” He guessed, and his earnestness only stoked her irritation. 

“Not at all,” she insisted, practically stabbing her knife into the butter. “Please, Quentin, share your thoughts freely.” 

Quentin swallowed, his face drawn, and for a moment Margo was tempted to mercy. She did not want to fight, she wanted to  _ talk _ . She wanted him to hold her—kiss her again, sweet and warm and desperate in her arms. 

He cleared his throat, and Margo dropped back down to earth. She put her silverware down to hear his rejection properly. 

“My lady, I can never be to Eliot what you are. And I can’t speak to the vows you hold between you, nor do I judge you for them. But Margo—” He blinked, quickly, and Margo swore his eyes were wet with tears. “What Eliot and I have—had, perhaps I should say, but nevertheless— it was good and holy, as is what you still possess with your husband. Last night...I was driven by lust. By longing, and sadness. I can only hold it as a sin in my heart.”

A sin. A  _ sin.  _ Margo’s lips curled into a snarl. 

“Go then, if you are so sure of our fate in hellfire,” She hissed, her voice cold steel “Enjoy the inn and the comfort of your personal moral code.”

“I—my lady,” Quentin pleaded, “Don’t feel as if this is your doing—”

“It  _ was _ my doing,” she snapped. “It was absolutely my doing, Quentin, and I refuse to regret it.”

There was a pause. “I’m sorry,” Quentin breathed. “But this is how I feel.” 

“Then you should go,” Margo ordered. “Find the answers you seek in a rented room. I will keep house, and follow the restrictions set upon me by society since before I was born: cursed with waiting— first for Eliot, now for you.”

Quentin nodded. Swallowed. Bowed his head once and made for the door. In a fit of pique, Margo called after him, some of the venom drained from her voice. 

“It was only a kiss, Q.”

He froze, his fingers just brushing the doorknob. 

“Not for me, Margo.” He turned back, and his eyes shone. “I daresay… for me it was much more.”

Quentin turned the knob and stepped out. The door closed behind him, and then Margo was truly alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the utterly sublime reception to our last chapter. We hope you all are enjoying this bumpy, wild ride! Comments are always, always loved and adored.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome all, to a highly significant chapter. We'd like to give a warning for discussion of past emotional partner abuse. Nothing too specific, but everybody take care of themselves. As always, we look forward to your thoughts and comments! Seriously, each one is a gift.

“What are you drinking to, Herr Coldwater?”

“Nothing in particular,” Quentin lied smoothly. He raised the glass, toasting the young server who watched him with curiosity. He was a fan of his compositions, an amateur musician who had recognized Quentin upon his checking in at the inn. Normally, Quentin would be flattered— deeply touched, even— and probably awkward and flustered as was his habit with any kind of public attention, but today he couldn’t drag his focus towards anything but the contents of his drink.

The server– Christoph was his name– frowned. Quentin felt guilty, to be sure. It was always heartbreaking to learn that your idols were only mere shadows of men, unable to measure up the greatness that newspapers and critics would thrust upon them. 

Christoph left his table to tend to other customers, and the pang of Quentin’s inadequacies faded. 

He took a sip of his drink, the burn of the spirits nothing compared to the selfish love burned through his heart.

Quentin closed his eyes against the bustle and low talk in the cafe, leaning his forehead against the cool glass in his hand. It had been four days since he had left the Waugh house and curls, tightly wound or loose, filled his dreams, waking and asleep. Eliot’s hair had always been dear to him, the way it spilled over him as they made love into the small hours, how it shrouded them, creating shadows for them to make their own world. His locks were sweet chaos, the warmth and intimacy of the night. Without Eliot, Quentin had been bared to the garish light of day once more, forced to face the cruelties of the world without a buffer, without  _ love  _ to soften its blows. 

And now, in his selfishness, it was not only Eliot’s hair he saw in his mind’s eye. 

Margo’s hair… was a mystery. He had never seen it out of a style, elaborate or simple, but he had seen wisps of it these last weeks. A curl would escape while they played cards in the parlor, a rebellious lock that twisted and curled once free from the smooth style Fen no doubt worked hard to create. She had been wearing it in a simple knot at the back of her neck when they had kissed, and his own hands had teased and grasped until some of it had hung about her shoulders, free and soft under his fingers…

He tipped his glass back, emptying it. He set the glass down on the table along with a few coins for the server, adjusting his jacket before climbing the rickety staircase that led to his room. A war raged in his heart.

The rusty key scraped unpleasantly against his fingers as he opened the door to his small room. He felt clumsy and over-warm, the beginnings of drunkenness. He hadn’t felt the true need to over-imbibe spirits since meeting Eliot, and even in his absence Margo had provided the companionship and comfort he needed not to lapse into old habits. 

But… in the absence of love one must medicate somehow. 

Still dressed, he flopped down on the bed, letting his eyes fall shut. Spinning, spinning, spinning– the sensation closed in on him like a writhing crowd. He counted in his head. June, July, August, September. Eliot was due home by the fall of the leaves, and already Quentin had broken his promise that he would remain steadfast and true. That he would be waiting for him. 

He clenched his teeth against his own self-pity.

Should he not feel angry? Was he not entitled to feel hurt and jilted by the man that had knelt before him in Leipzig and promised to love him, and left him in silence now for four months, without even a word of his health and wellbeing? 

He remembered that night, how he had bared his soul to Eliot, sharing the lowest of his demons, the specters that threatened always to drag him into nothingness. Eliot had responded in a way Quentin could not have expected, not in his wildest dreams: For the truth of his fragile mind to be known by him, and for Eliot to not turn away in disgust but to prostrate himself before him and offer him love, compassion, his fervent desire–it had been– 

All at once, he saw Margo’s face as well, warm and solemn as she heard his tragic tale of near suicide. Far from disgusted, she hadn’t turned away from him then, but only made herself closer, baring the secrets of her own soul in response and granting him the sweet kisses of her mouth.

Quentin shivered, the warm summer air notwithstanding. Margo had blessedly put a stop to them, a wise move in the long run, but Quentin would have continued, he knew in his heart. He would have received eagerly— gratefully—anything she had been willing to give, and it haunted him now.

What would Eliot think? 

He remembered the night of the opera, how Eliot and Margo had glittered and shone in the warm glow of candlelight on that cold winter evening. He had never felt so right as he had then, walking beside them as Vienna marveled at their beauty, their grace, their very modern  _ eccentricities.  _ He felt no jealousy as maidens swooned over Eliot’s love for Margo; there was no falsehood, no lie or deceit to be performed. Eliot loved Margo down to his very bones. 

In his stupor, he imagined that evening going differently. What if there had been no bickering about potential engagements and aborted lovemaking? What if instead Margo and Eliot had turned to him, their faces alit with mischief and fondness, and expressed their need to make him entirely, truly, deeply,  _ theirs? _

His breath hitched in his chest at the thought. 

Had he loved them both, even then? Could he remember a time before he had loved the man who had brought his music to life and the woman who had given him a home? He could— Christ, he wanted to give himself to them both, to fit between them as a missing piece. 

Eliot served his wife, Quentin remembered, and it was not a duty against his nature but a joy, a gift to the dearest companion of his life. He made her happiness and pleasure a priority even in their unconventional circumstances. The taste of her off of Eliot’s lips all those months ago had been Quentin’s proof. Eliot knew Margo as any husband should know his wife and Quentin felt no jealousy, only a profound sense of rightness. It was only righter still when he thought that he— with Eliot’s blessing, and Margo’s eager desire,  _ only _ then— that he might also know Margo as her husband did...

He exhaled, the darkness swirling around him nearly as intoxicating as the whiskey that thickened his blood. 

Margo had played him like an instrument, her hand a brace on the back of his neck as Eliot’s had been so many times. Quentin could know no shame when he was held so firmly, no insecurity when his lover made their want of him so plain. It was bliss, and Quentin would have given her anything she had asked of him. His virtue, his fidelity, these were trifles in the face of love unbound. Surely even Eliot, Quentin had thought in his craze, could only see the beauty of this.

_ You have kissed my husband, as I have kissed you lover. _

Margo had spoken those words, but their kisses had not been laced with sadness. He remembered feeling only want, only desire,  _ love–  _ he swallowed hard– for the woman in front of him, not pain for the man he feared might be lost to him forever. 

Perhaps that was the truth that had driven him to leave, not the fear that his passions had been purely out of lust, but the undeniable truth that they had been true and  _ good _ . That the touch of his lips to Margo’s—the clasp of his hands on her waist, her  _ breast _ —had been as blessed as his joyful surrender to Eliot. 

Alone, for the first time in a year, Quentin searched his soul, and saw a challenging and beautiful truth. He wanted them both, husband and wife, for his own. To be  _ theirs _ . Body and soul and mind. 

How would such a union look? He couldn’t answer such a question alone in this room with only his sorrow to keep him company. He needed them.  _ Both  _ of them.

In his weakness, he wanted for touch,  _ needed.  _ God, he missed Eliot, the long dull throb of months of separation, and he missed Margo, the sharp new sting of a few days’ absence. 

He drew his hands over the groin of his trousers and pressed, relieving some of the pressure that had built there in his thoughts. He turned over onto his belly, pressing his hips into his hand and grinding down onto the bed, fumbling with the fastenings of his trousers, hoping to touch himself in earnest. Quentin wanted— he  _ wanted _ . His thoughts were awash with dark hair and eyes like liquid gold, heavy on him as they took him apart piece by piece. The hands that held him were both large and small, asking of him, and Quentin eagerly giving. 

_ Oh,  _ how they would have him, how they would  _ need  _ him,  _ own  _ him– 

A knock sounded at the door. Quentin froze, face flushed.

“Herr Coldwater?”

Quentin rolled onto his back, hastily redoing his trousers. 

“Who is it?” he called, clearing his throat to banish the breathlessness from his voice. Who in the devil could have sought him out here?

There was a pause, and then—

“It’s Todd, sir.”

Quentin sat up, heart racing. Todd? But– why wasn’t he with Eliot? It was like a chunk of ice dropped into Quentin’s belly, utterly chiling his desire. Was Eliot  _ here _ , come home to Vienna, and after months of waiting and writing and promising his faithful patience had Quentin’s lover opened his door to find him gone _?  _

“Just a minute!” He called again, shooting out of bed and quickly drawing the blankets and sheets up. There was a pile of shirts that wanted for laundering that he had heaped in the corner and a stack of empty glasses that needed to be returned to the cafe. He caught a glance of himself in the splotched looking glass and grimaced, searching out a tie for his hair. 

By the time he opened the door, it was a wonder that Todd waited. 

Eliot’s butler bowed his head in greeting, as if Quentin were Lord of the manor and not standing in a dingy Inn looking in desperate need of Christian charity.

“Good day, sir. It’s good to see you, after so long.”

Quentin barely managed a nod in return before he blurted out: “Is Eliot here? Has he come home?”

Todd’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but then a sense of realization passed his features and he sighed. 

“I’m sorry, Herr Coldwater, he hasn’t.” 

Quentin felt some tight place behind his breastbone unclench, before a whole new fear took its place. Why would Eliot’s valet—famously, almost comically loyal— leave his side? Todd looked exhausted, his eyes red-rimmed and dark circles framing them. Panic tightened in his chest at the sight.

“Is Eliot—“ Quentin swallowed, dreading the worst possible news that would bring Todd to his doorstep. Eliot had been ill—drunk, Margo claimed, but did he— he  _ couldn’t have _ — “Is he alright?”

Todd’s eyes widened. “Is he— good lord, yes! Of course. He is well in Paris, last I left him. Broken-hearted, perhaps, but in fine health, sir.” 

Quentin sagged against the doorframe, his worst fears relieved. Todd looked mildly stricken. 

“Herr Coldwater, I am sorry,” he said. “I hadn’t realized that my appearance would draw up such panic.”

“No, no, I’ve jumped to conclusions,” Quentin insisted, waving him off. “It’s only that we heard that he was ill, and I’ve had no word since—it was a momentary fear. Nothing more.” 

“Well, I do apologize.” 

“No harm,” Quentin murmured, as he stood aside. “Would you like to come in?”

“Yes, thank you.” 

Todd removed his hat and set it upon Quentin’s bureau, taking in the paltry scene before him. 

“It’s not much,” Quentin said, sighing. “I’m only staying until I figure out a more permanent solution. Or...well, until things change. Please, sit?”

Todd nodded and took the chair by the window. It left Quentin a bit off balance, if he was being honest. He was sure he had never seen Todd seated while he, Eliot or Margo stood. Quentin shook his head as he sat on the bed. How quickly he had become used to the bizarre etiquettes of servant and employer, as though he and Todd weren’t both men without a drop of noble blood between them. 

“Did you come from the house?” Quentin asked. “I mean to say, have you been home yet?” 

“Home,” Todd repeated, looking deeply melancholy for a moment. “You mean to the townhouse, sir? I’m afraid not. Well, yes, but only for a moment, to pick a few things up. I didn’t see anyone.” 

“Then you’ve only just returned?” 

Todd shook his head. “No, I—I’ve been back in Vienna for nearly a week.” 

He swallowed, nervously tapping his heel. His suit was rumpled, as though he’d been traveling or as if he hadn’t thought to reach for an iron since he’d stopped. It was night and day to his usual press perfect livery. Eliot’s vanities certainly extended to the person of his valet, and before today Quentin had never seen him in a state less than poised, every hair in place less he disappoint his employer. 

“Todd, what are doing back so soon, and without Eliot?” he asked, gently. He hated when others spoke to him in such a tone, but in this case it seemed as though the butler needed it. Todd took a shuddering breath.

“My mother,” he explained. “She took ill while I was in Paris. I had intended to stay, but when Herr Waugh learned of her ill health he basically forced me onto a coach. I got home on Sunday, and managed to see her for a few days but she just passed yesterday evening.”

Quentin frowned. “Oh. Todd, I’m sorry.”

Todd shook his head. “It is what it is, sir. I only– I came here for a drink and I saw you climbing the stairs as I entered the cafe and I thought I might– you see, my sister needs her space. To care for her children and husband and I didn’t wish to be underfoot. But I–” he swallowed, shaking his head. “I’m not quite ready to return to the house, sir. To Lady Margo and the staff. They look to me to lead, when I’m there, and it’s an honor, really, but...anyway. In a few days, for certain. But until then, I don’t—that is I still didn’t—” 

_ Didn’t wish to be alone,  _ Quentin finished in his head. He stood, searching for two of the cleanest glasses in the stack and his brown bottle of whiskey. It was quite light, but there was enough in the bottle for a good slosh for each of them.

“I can certainly be helpful in one regard,” Quentin said, handing him a glass. “You did come here for a drink, afterall.” 

Todd took it with a small smile, looking slightly relieved. He sipped at it self-consciously.

“Is there anything to be done?” Quentin asked, taking his seat with his own drink in hand. “Arrangements to be made?”

Todd shook his head. “Everything has been taken care of. Her services will be this weekend, all thanks to Herr Waugh’s good will, of course.” He took another sip of his drink, grimacing. “He was responsible for moving her here when she got too old to keep her own house in the village where I was born.”

Quentin knew of Eliot’s generosity, how he took care of the people who cared for him. He would frequently spend Sunday afternoons answering letters and mailing banknotes to those who would ask for his aid. He never questioned them, only sought to help in any way he could.

“Because of him she was able to spend her last years in comfort with my sister and her family, and I was able to see her as much as I could.” Todd smiled. “But still, she was my mother.”

“You have every right to be upset.”

Todd nodded. “I suppose I do.”

A few moments passed. Downstairs, someone laughed and a glass shattered. Quentin sipped his own drink so as to not appear rude, though he had lost the taste for it since Todd’s arrival. 

“I don’t wish to pry, sir,” Todd said carefully, once again looking around the shabby room. “But why are you here? I should think that Lady Margo wouldn’t turn you out.”

Quentin laughed at the thought, a dark sound. “No, quite the opposite actually. My exile is of the self-imposed sort.”

Todd furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

“I left of my own accord, a few days ago,” Quentin explained, tucking a stray bit of hair behind his hair where it had escaped the hasty bun. “Lady Margo and I had an encounter, of sorts.”

“A disagreement, sir?”

Quentin shifted in his seat. This was hardly something to be sharing with Margo’s own butler, but he had no one else to turn to. If Todd could offer even a word of advice... 

“No, the encounter was of more of an...amorous nature.”

Todd blanched. “ _ Sir— _ ”

Quentin flung his hand out in panic. 

“No!” he nearly shouted. “No, nothing so scandalous as you’ve just imagined. We only just kissed.”

Quentin dragged his hand over his face with a sigh. “Not that that wouldn’t be scandal enough,” he muttered to himself, “Just what Margo needs from me.” 

Todd deflated somewhat in response to Quentin’s assurances. Even so, despite his initial response he didn’t appear to be as shocked as Quentin expected. It was almost as if such an event wasn’t a surprise to the butler. Whether that spoke to Todd’s doubts over Quentin’s fidelity or his belief in Margo’s assertiveness he couldn’t say. 

“It was only that we grew so fond of each other,” Quentin continued. “In Eliot’s absence. And perhaps we both felt the pang of loneliness so strongly that we resorted to…”

Quentin couldn’t find it in himself to finish that half truth. It was wicked enough that he had given that lie to Margo, and himself. He couldn’t push it on a third party as well. 

He looked up to find Todd watching him curiously. 

“Is that what you believe happened?” the butler asked, voice level. “Truly?” 

“No.” Quentin found himself on his feet, pacing the small distance of the room glass in hand. “It was a choice made. Emotions were high, but it was a sober exchange, and a willing one. I only regret…”

Quentin paused.  _ I only regret that I fled in the face of my desires. I only regret that Eliot was not there to share in the pleasure of it with us. _ All on the tip of his tongue, but perhaps too much to share with even so trusted a member of the household as Todd. 

“My original affections haven’t wavered,” Quentin continued, setting on a different tack. “You must believe me, Todd, I haven’t felt one flicker of doubt. I heard your voice at the door and the greatest wish of my heart was that Eliot stood beside you, come to summon me home.”

Quentin blinked, and continued quickly: “No offense, of course.” 

Todd shrugged. “None taken, sir.” 

Quentin sipped his whiskey, thoughts roiling. His gut clenched when he returned to his original thought. 

“If he had returned, he would have found me gone, and all his doubts made real.” 

“It...would not have painted a favorable picture,” Todd agreed. 

“Then I have been spared an unforgivable misstep.” Quentin sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “After all these months spent faithful I have brought this upon us…”

“Such choices are not made by one man alone,” Todd said generously, “Or at least, not where Herr Waugh’s lady wife is concerned.” 

“Margo makes her own choices, and can allow herself guilt or absolution as she sees fit,” Quentin said waving Todd’s words aside. “I chose to follow one man, Todd, and I have faltered at the first great test.” 

“It was a cruel test to set, sir, and we all know it.” 

“Such sentiments are kind, but little consolation now.” Quentin tugged at his hair in frustration. “This is— how can I even imagine facing him after this, and to say what? I thought my heart was brimful. I thought I gave fully of myself in love and still now I would demand more, and from she who Eliot holds dearest among all others. This selfishness will be too much for him to endure.” 

To Quentin’s surprise, Todd scoffed. “Hardly,” he muttered, before draining his glass. 

“Excuse me?” 

Todd looked up at him, equally surprised. 

“I—forgive me, sir, I don’t mean to make light of his troubles, but I think we both know Herr Waugh has endured far greater slights in the name of love far shallower than this.” 

Quentin put his empty glass on the nightstand. “Do we?” he asked. “Todd, what on earth are you talking about?’ 

Todd frowned. “I’m—I mean, it’s hardly my place, but I’m talking about the baron, Herr Coldwater.” 

It was Quentin’s turn to frown. “You mean Duke Idri? I thought he and Eliot were on fond terms even now. He spoke of him often, and with great affection—” 

“No,” Todd was looking quite puzzled. “Of course not the duke. I’m talking about  _ Mikhail _ .” 

He spoke the name with great emphasis, and even greater distaste, as though Quentin would hear it and know at once the wicked personage of whom he spoke. 

“Todd, I don’t know who that is.” 

He half- thought Todd might drop his glass. He took it from his hand, lest the barkeep try to charge him for it when it broke. After some seconds Todd blinked, looking quite shaken and more than a bit angry. 

“I beg your pardon sir, but are you  _ quite  _ serious?”

Quentin blinked, his jaw dropped. “Todd?”

Todd stood, running a frustrated hand through his hair and looking out the greasy window to the street. 

“Not anymore,” he said, more to himself than to Quentin. “I will not stand by anymore.”

Quentin waited, feeling unsettled when Todd turned around and set his intense gaze upon him. 

“This whole time, you’ve had no idea?” he asked. “And still, for months, you’ve waited for him?” 

“I’ve no earthly idea what you’re talking about, Todd,” Quentin replied. “But of  _ course _ I’ve waited. I love him.” 

“Then there are things you should know, Herr Coldwater,” he said, nodding to solidify his point. “It’s not my story to tell, but– regardless, it must be told. If not for your health but for Herr Waugh, and I daresay Lady Margo as well.”

Quentin broke his gaze away, looking down into his now empty glass. 

“I’m out of whiskey, I’m afraid.” he said simply.

Todd took his hat in hand. “Come then. This is a conversation best had with a table between us, anyway.”

They walked in silence back down to the cafe, bustling and steadily filling with patrons for the dinner hour. The took a table in the back, far from any wandering eyes and ears. Quentin ordered them beer, and Todd lit a cigarette. 

He spoke frankly as soon as the server left the table. 

“There is a reason you have been treated so ill, Herr Coldwater,” he began. “I still find it hard to believe you have stayed this long without an explanation, but it only speaks to your fidelity that you have, whatever stumbles may have befallen you on that path.” 

“Please, go on.” 

“I don’t know how much you know of Herr Waugh’s past, sir, but the truth is we are not so different, he and I. Much of where we find ourselves at present has been our choice.” Todd revealed that information without flourish, as through it would not cause Quentin to question everything he thought he knew about the butler. 

“Regardless, I shall tell you how I came to know him, and what brought me to his service. We were both of us twenty one at the time.” 

Quentin recalled Eliot’s story he had told him at Christmas, of his boyhood in the Hungarian countryside and how Lord Fogg had lifted him from poverty and trained him to be a musician. He hadn’t thought much of it then, but there had been several years missing in between Eliot’s training and the success he had sustained as a man.

“We come from similar villages in Hungary, and a similar station,” Todd started. “But I didn’t meet him there. I first met Herr Waugh at the estate of ‘the well-born’ Baron Mikhail of Moscow, an exiled Russian aristocrat living in the countryside outside of Berlin.”

Todd spoke the name with disgust, his lips curling as he tapped the ashes from the end of his cigarette. 

“I received my position through luck, mostly. I had a great aunt that worked at the estate, and I was allowed to start my career as a groom rather than from the bottom. Mikhail spent most of his time in Berlin, frequenting clubs for men of a certain nature. I’m sure you can imagine.” He waved a hand towards Quentin, who nodded his understanding. It wasn’t an unkind gesture. “That’s where he met Eliot Waugh, a young musician of promise looking for work in the city.”

At the mention of Eliot’s name, Quentin could see him. Younger, fresh-faced– a different man than the one he knew today, but still his Eliot. 

“Herr Waugh was… naive, if you’ll forgive my saying so, sir, and young. Only twenty-one, as I said. His pockets were full from Lord Fogg’s inheritance, and his head brimming with dreams of the music he would make now that he was free from his service. Mikhail was not a good man, but at the time any living seemed a good one to me, and I endured his cruel moods and irresponsible spending along with the rest of the staff. We hardly were free to think how he must have treated his lovers, though we pitied them.”

He shook his head, pursing his lips. 

“Mikhail was of two natures, like a demon from a folk tale– one sweet and kind and the other conniving and devious. He spoke words of love, devotion, and he took– well, he took too much from those who cared for him, much more than he ever intended to give in return. From Herr Waugh, he took advantage— of his youth, his innocence, and of his generous and loving heart.”

Todd tapped his cigarette, the ashes floating to the ground. “I watched it happen. Having never known the love of his father and eager for tenderness, Herr Waugh grew more infatuated by the day, and Mikhail made so many promises. Promises that he could never keep.” Todd paused, as if it were too terrible to voice.

Quentin nodded, encouraging him to go on. “Please, I must know.”

“I would hear them talking, things not meant for others, but you know how servants listen out of sight. Mikhail promised Herr W—Eliot. He promised Eliot love equal to a marriage between man and wife. That they would never be parted.” Todd shook his head, frowning deeply. “It was wicked spell he ensnared him in, and Eliot was thoroughly bewitched. Mikhail brought him to high-born estates to play and promoted his talents widely, and in return, Eliot was fully devoted to him.”

Todd took another cigarette when Quentin noticed his shaking hands, and Quentin motioned the barkeep for another round of ale. 

“A year passed, and it turned sour. No longer did Mikhail speak the same words of love and devotion. He treated Eliot as children do their toys, discarding him once he tired of his play.”

“It was my duty to wait by the carriages during parties, and out would come Eliot, cast aside by the Baron, told he was an irritation, his affections cloying and unwanted and his presence an embarrassment to Mikhail’s aristocratic image. We would share cigarettes and speak Magyar—our shared tongue— and over time we became friends. But then Mikhail would– he would call for him, toy with him... he would speak the same words of love as before but now they were laced with malice, a mockery of something that should have been pure and good.”

Todd looked up. “You must understand, Eliot stopped playing the piano during this time. He neglected his career, his friendships, his very health and life, just to return to Mikhail’s favor. He was a vulnerable man with no family or connections outside of Pest, and Mikhail’s distance grew—though always teasing, always stringing him on just enough that Eliot never thought to make himself free—until finally…”

Todd stopped, frowning. Quentin’s heart ached in his chest. He tried again to imagine what Eliot had looked like– smoother faced, less skilled at hiding his true feelings– and so, so young. 

Todd sighed, shaking his head. “It came to a head in the winter time. Mikhail announced his engagement to a Princess of Saxony, as rich an heiress as he could find that would have him in his disgraced state, and his intentions to move to her country manor. All this he detailed in a letter, and tasked me with delivering it to Eliot’s apartments in the city. I did so, with a heavy heart, and watched as Eliot crumpled to the floor. It was the final blow.”

Quentin grimaced, feeling nauseous at the image. 

“I did not return to Mikhail’s service that evening,” Todd continued. “For the first time, I followed my own instinct and stayed with Eliot. He was living as a pauper then, the money from his performances gone and his allowance from Mikhail stopped. He had been living on the promise of love alone, and I knew with this rejection that it would be the end of him, unless he had an ally.”

“He had his drinks, and his tears, but then we sat down and started to build from scratch a new Eliot Waugh. I myself rose from groom to valet and butler in one hour.” Todd laughed, his mouth curling into the first smile since the start of the story. “I spent the last of my wages on a new suit for him, so that he might promote himself as a teacher and entertainer. It was easier, you see, for Eliot to find success if he portrayed the part of a gentleman, one with a valet on his staff, even if we both went home to the same small apartment at night. In some ways, it was like living with a brother, the pair of us in one cramped room, but in public we performed, as thoroughly as any of Eliot’s concerts. Eventually the performance became reality.”

“Why did you do it?” Quentin asked, finding his voice. “Why risk so much for him?”

Todd shrugged, the motion so casual on the usually uber-formal butler’s frame that Quentin almost laughed. 

“It wasn’t all charity,” he said, a pragmatic edge back in his voice. “I simply had the foresight to see how successful he would be. He changed his dress, the way he spoke, his mannerisms, even his music. Within a year he was touring Europe and playing small venues. He rose from the ashes a new man, one who could charm a room and dazzle an audience. Within three years he made enough of a mark to be offered the long empty court composer position left vacant after Antonio Salieri died. Here in Vienna he met Lady Margo, and the rest, as they say, is history, Herr Coldwater.”

Todd leaned back, looking off into the distance. 

“And what of Mikhail?” Quentin asked. The name tasted bitter in his mouth. He understood now Todd’s earlier derision. 

“What of him? He’s likely still the husband of that unfortunate Saxon aristocrat,” he said with a shrug. “As far as I know he’s never tried to contact Eliot, thank god. If he did I think Lady Margo would shortly stand trial for murder.” 

“And I her accomplice,” Quentin agreed. Todd toasted his near empty glass with a nod of his head, though his expression was still melancholic. 

“What you must know,” Todd continued, staring over Quentin’s shoulder as if seeing into the past itself, “The source of all your troubles, is that Eliot doesn’t scorn the man who used him, and could have very well ruined him. To this day, he still believes in the fantasy of the sweet and loving Mikhail that never was, and he holds himself as a murderer in his heart.” 

Todd blew out a long stream of smoke like a sigh. “He believes he killed that man, and left the cruel baron in his place, by smothering him with his love.” 

Quentin wet his lips, the realization forming in his mind like pieces of a puzzle. Eliot’s quick declarations, his eagerness to forget their arguments, his genuine, hurtful surprise when Quentin would offer him such devotions and forgiveness in return. 

_ I have decided long ago that you will only see the best of me _ . 

“And he believes he will do the same to me.” Quentin said. “All this talk of his selfishness, and my regrets. He wrote as such to me, drunk beyond reason. He thinks his love to be a millstone around my neck.”

Todd nodded. “I would venture that is his greatest fear, yes.”

“Perhaps it is too bold for me to say,” he continued, pursing his lips. “But I think my point in all of this, sir, is that you think yourself asking too much of him, when I believe Herr Waugh has waited his entire life for a man who is capable of feeling the same fullness of devotion that he does.” 

“Even—” Quentin swallowed. “Even as regards the Lady Waugh?” 

“Especially in that regard, sir, I would say.” Todd drained the last of the beer in his glass. “Does he strike you as a jealous man?” 

Quentin pursed his lips. “No. He proved frustratingly mild in that regard, in fact. But this, his  _ wife—” _

“It can be forgiven,” Todd interrupted him. “Discussed with fair reason, at least. But...” 

His expression went quite solemn.

“If he were to come home in two months time, and find you gone...that would destroy him.” 

There was something haunted in Todd’s gaze, the kind of fear that had chilled Quentin’s belly when he had heard of Eliot’s drunkenness in Pest. 

“How is he, Todd?” Quentin asked, voice low. “Really?” 

“Without his wife? Without you?” Todd traced the rim of his glass with a finger. “He’s a shadow of himself, sir.” 

Quentin clenched his jaw. He knew. He  _ knew _ when he read his drunken letter that Eliot was suffering, and by his own choice. “He’s a fool.” 

“It’s the greatest fool who thinks himself wise,” Todd replied. “And he still thinks he has made a noble sacrifice, saving you regret and his wife scandal.” 

A low simmer of anger took root in Quentin’s mind. 

“He cannot think me so shallow,” he said, his voice near a growl. “That I don’t know my own  _ mind. _ ” 

“He thinks the world a cruel place, and has armored himself to endure it,” Todd replied. “Such defenses often hurt the ones we hold dearest.” 

“Margo knows of this,” Quentin guessed. “She and Eliot keep no secrets.” 

Todd looked away. “That’s not for me to say,” he hedged, which was all the confirmation Quentin needed. He rose from the table, fishing his coin purse from his jacket pocket. 

“Needless to say, Todd, this has greatly reordered things in my mind,” he said. 

“Sir, I can see my revelations have distressed you—” 

“No.” Quentin shook his head. “In many ways it is a great relief, I assure you. I’m more than grateful for your candor.” 

He dropped several coins on the table for the barkeep’s tab. 

“I’ll be returning to the house at once,” he declared. “If you are looking for a refuge, my room is paid through the next three days. Take it with my gratitude.”

Todd still looked concerned, but Quentin was fully resolved. 

“I will sir, thank you.” 

Quentin left him at the table, his heart roiling with anger and love in equal measure, but also admiration. This was perhaps Todd’s greatest act of service yet to his employer. 

In many ways, Todd’s revelation changed nothing, Quentin realized as he entered his room and began to the haphazard process of throwing his few shirts and shaving kit into his satchel. Some part of him had been determined to return to the Waugh townhouse from the moment he left. Even the size of the bag he had packed now pointed to the obvious, that he could never have truly abandoned Margo, or left the north bedroom empty for Eliot to find on his return home. No, the tragic tale Todd had shared with him served only to reinvigorate Quentin’s resolve, and dispense with his lingering fears. There was a _villain_ who was the cause of their grief, even if he only existed as a specter haunting Eliot’s soul. 

Quentin paused over the contents of his writing case, anger rearing up once more. It was irrational, selfish in nature, but still it burned with him alongside his relief and stalwart devotion. 

Why hadn’t Eliot told him?

Taking a moment, Quentin sat, drawing out a fresh sheet of paper and his pen still stuck in the ink pot from his fruitless attempts to compose the night before. Poetry worked wonders on Eliot in the past, but perhaps a more frank expression of his love was what was needed. For the span of five minutes, Quentin forewent his metaphor, his flourishes, even the conventions of good manners, and spoke his heart to Eliot. He was not so explicit as to endanger them, but as he put his hasty signature on the short letter he knew there could be no confusion between them so long as Eliot read his words with his mind unclouded. 

After hearing of the abuse of his past Quentin wondered if such a thing were even possible. 

Quentin steeled himself and sealed the letter. Such thoughts led only to doubt and dark spirals, and for once Quentin felt a strength in his mind. He would not succumb, not when there were essential conversations to be had. 

It was the work of minutes to finish packing, and then Quentin set out for the house on foot. With only a tremor of nerves he dropped his letter in the post.

_ Let him hear me _ , he prayed as the letter vanished through the slot. 

It was the brisk walk of a few minutes before he stood in front of Eliot and Margo’s townhouse, his home for nearly a year now. Quentin rang the bell, and prayed none of their neighbors were paying too close attention. It was only a few moments before Franz opened the door. Quentin’s valet, at least, looked relieved to see him. 

“Herr Coldwater, you’ve returned.” 

“Yes,” Quentin said, “I would speak to my lady. Is she home?” 

“I—” Franz expression faltered. “Yes, sir—although I’m not sure—” 

Quentin stepped inside. “We shall say I insisted. Is she in her parlor?” 

Franz shook his head, accepting Quentin’s small bag. “The study, sir.” 

“Thank you.” 

It was only ten paces to the study, hardly enough time for Quentin to cool the anger that burned in his heart or to suss out the right words to give it a name. Before he knew it, he was standing in the open doorway, faced with Margo at Eliot’s desk, her eyes downcast, a pen in hand as she methodically wrote a letter. 

“Margo.”

A twitch in her jaw signaled that she was aware of his presence. She finished her line before looking up. 

“You look terrible,” she commented, and clearly she was correct. He hadn’t brought any of his finer clothes with him, and stood before her in his oldest suit. The very same he had worn when Eliot Waugh had sat at his table in the Leipzig cafe and changed his life forever. 

He held his head higher. 

“I apologize about my appearance.” He stepped closer to the desk. “I feel that we must settle things between us. On more than one count.”

Margo hummed, returning her gaze to her letter. Quentin cleared his throat, rooting his feet to the ground despite her outward indifference. 

“I have just heard the tale of a certain Baron Mikhail,” he revealed. “I find that many of my deepest questions found answers in the telling.” 

Margo froze, finally affected. She set her pen aside, but she did not look at him.

“I don’t like to hear that name spoken in my home.” 

Quentin crossed his arms.

“Neither apparently does Eliot.” 

Still Margo refused to turn. “If you know their history, then you must be able to imagine why not.” For a moment her shoulders went tense. “Who told you? Surely no one in Vienna—”

In this Quentin was happy to assuage her fears. “No. It was Todd.”

“Ah.” Margo relaxed, and finally she looked at him. “I heard from Frau Schiller that he had returned. That his mother had passed.” 

Quentin removed his hat. “Yes. He is much grieved.”

“I feel for Todd, truly,” she said. “To lose one’s mother so quickly. But… it wasn’t his place to speak of such a private matter to you.”

Quentin shook his head. “In truth, I pushed him to it. And he did it out of concern. He believed that I knew the story, and was shocked to learn that I was completely ignorant.”

She bit her bottom lip, drumming her fingertips on the desk. 

“I’m sure Eliot had his reasons. One does not speak lightly of such topics. Even to those we hold most dear.”

Quentin inhaled quickly, his anger only stoked by her coolness. 

“And did you, also, have reasons for keeping me so ignorant? For holding back the one story that could have helped me make Eliot see the truth?"

“I have reasons enough for everything I do.”

“Clearly.”

Margo stood suddenly, her chair scraping across the floor and her gaze hard. 

“I hardly thought I would find you returned to my home only to speak to me in such a manner, Herr Coldwater.”

“Quentin.” 

Margo’s eyes widened, but he continued. 

“We have both earned the right to the intimacy of our given names, as you so often remind me yourself.” Quentin words spilled out in a jumble. “I—is this not my home as well, Margo?”

Margo looked away. “I thought it was,” she replied. “I was hardly the one to banish you.” 

That, Quentin could not argue against. 

“Why would you hold back such a poisonous secret?” he asked instead. “You would tell me of the troubles of your marriage bed? Eliot’s—” Quentin dropped his voice, even in the privacy of the house. “—his  _ infertility _ , which is the furthest thing from my business, but not this monster who has haunted my every moment with him from the start? Do you not see the sorrows that could have been prevented?” 

“Eliot is my husband, not you,” Margo shot back. “What horrors of his past I do and don’t share are my prerogative.” 

“I could have convinced him to stay,” Quentin insisted. “If I had known the truth, the source of his pain—” 

“Could you have?” Margo glared at him. “My words were not enough, though I knew all. Do you hold some advantage over him that I lack?”

“No,” Quentin sighed. “No, he ignored both our counsel in equal measure, despite all of our combined intimacies. And you know I would never set one kind against the other.”

“I only thought,” he continued. “Margo, I thought I had spent these months in honesty with you. Instead, I've found that you left me in ignorance.” 

“On the contrary, I think I have been healthily frank with you in Eliot’s absence, excepting those histories which weren’t mine to give.” Margo raised an eyebrow. “Can you say the same, Quentin?” 

The anger drained out of him then, as if he were a balloon pricked with a pin. This, he realized, was the real reason he had returned to the townhouse—had come  _ home _ . From the moment he had left his soul had been crying out for a reason to return and lay himself prostrate at Margo’s feet and the course of Todd’s essential revelation had given him one. 

“No, my lady, I can’t.”

Margo crossed her arms, waiting. It was plain that neither of them were talking any longer of Mikhail, or even Eliot, for that matter. 

“I have made myself appear a fool.”

“You and Eliot both, I’m afraid.”

It might have been the work of his imagination, but did he see a slight smile pull at the corners of her mouth?

“My anger is with myself, most of all, my lady, and it’s all because I haven’t given you the truth that is in my heart.” He swallowed, heart pounding. “I did not only kiss you out of loneliness, or sadness,” he admitted, the truth lifting like a weight from his chest. “I have grown fond of you— so much so that I would dare say I—“

He shook his head, falling silent. The last time he had spoken words of love it had not worked in his favor. 

“I was hurt when you said that,” Margo said.

Quentin nodded. “I know. I always realize too late that I have the potential to hurt, as well as be hurt.”

“Do you find the regard we hold for one another to be a sin?” 

“No,” he confessed. “I find it to be the furthest thing from sinful.” 

Eliot had called him a poet, but Quentin felt clumsy with words around Margo. His honesty came at the cost of ornament, the words bare and vulnerable as a newborn foal on unsteady legs.

“I wanted to kiss you—have wanted, for months,” Quentin said. “I want nothing more than to hold you again— though we both know we can’t.” 

Margo’s expression shuttered, and Quentin found himself dropping to one knee before her, lest she close her heart to him again. 

“Forgive me, please,” he continued, stumbling over his words. “You are the dearest woman to me in all the world, but still—“

He caught her hand, clasped it between two of his own. 

“Margo, I must know that you understand,” Quentin pleaded, “Whatever unknowns lie between us, Eliot’s absence still cuts like a knife in my heart. To even speak of love without him in the same room is to dampen joy with greater pain.” 

Slowly, she nodded. 

“I do understand.” 

Relief, warm and sweeping, washing through him like a current. He squeezed her hand, parting his lips to speak once more. 

“And if there were to be—that is, if we were to share certain passions between us, and Eliot were to return home and misunderstand it to be a  _ betrayal _ of his affections—“

“Quentin—“

Quentin could hardly swallow back the terror that filled his heart at such a thought.

“My lady, if I lost him over this I would never be whole again,” he whispered. He bowed his head, as if in penance. There was a pause, and then a sigh. Quentin, eyes squeezed shut, felt the soft touch of Margo’s hand as she cupped his face. She tilted his head up to look her in the eye once more.

“If these are your only fears, dear Q,” she said, “Then we are in harmony. We must have Eliot at home and in our arms again before this book may be opened in earnest.”

With an air of finality, she pulled him to his feet. Her touch was like lightning against his skin, buzzing with possibility. 

“I’m sorry,” he said again, the words crippled in his mouth. “There could never be enough words to give you what you deserve, my lady.”

She smiled, as if enjoying a private joke. 

“When I married Eliot,” she started slowly, “There were some that believed I should be stripped of my title, whether or not I was an Earl’s daughter by birth. I was a betrayer, marrying so beneath my station. My children would be barred from high society, and I should receive a similar fate. Irene McCallister, for one, was very adamant about it.”

“She’s small minded. They all are.”

She nodded. “Indeed. But they aren’t wrong. My title is little more than an ornament now. I’m hardly a lady, and my children wouldn’t be received at court, had I had them. When those of a meaner nature use my title I can hear the mockery in their voice. The great joke of it in their eyes that I should still fancy myself a lady despite my unsuitable marriage. But you–”

She swallowed, and Quentin remembered how once Margo had admitted how difficult vulnerability was for her, and he stood here already a betrayer of her trust. But still, she rose to every challenge thrown her way. 

“But you,” she continued. “You say it with such care, as if it is not by my station that I was granted a title, but by my nature. I feel deserving of such an honor, when it’s from you. I’m not sure if that’s only an assumption, but, well–”

Her eyes clouded with insecurity, and in his panic Quentin took her other hand in his and raised it to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles and stepping closer to her. 

“It isn’t. Never doubt my affection for you. I think of you as,” he laughed in spite of himself, remembering some of his earliest words of love to Eliot. “I think of you as the  _ best  _ of women, and I am the luckiest of men to be in both your and Eliot’s affections.”

She took a shuddering breath, eyes less guarded, and nodded. Instinct possessed him, and he opened his arms. Without a word, she stepped between them, and they embraced, any last stronghold anger crumbling from them both. 

He held her, and realized as she settled into the embrace that he had never quite appreciated how very  _ small  _ Margo was. Her head only just rested on his shoulder. She had always seemed magnanimous, larger than life in her words and deeds, but he hadn’t fallen in love with the Lady Margaret Hanson-Waugh, socialite and fashion plate, just as he hadn’t fallen in love with Eliot Waugh, virtuoso pianist. 

She cleared her throat, and they parted, and Margo smiled, some of her old mischief back in her eyes. 

“I’m so glad you’re home.”

He returned it. “I am as well. I have felt more at home here than I ever did in Zwickau.”

“I’m happy to hear that,” she said, eyes twinkling with her innate intelligence. “Because I still feel that I have much to discuss with you, now that we have settled the quarrel between us.”

Quentin nodded. “I agree. Shall we step into the parlour? I could fetch us a tray from the kitchen, if I am still in Frau Schiller’s good favor.” 

Margo hummed. “A kind offer, but I think not. I have ideas, Quentin. Schemes of an...intimate nature. I must have your true thoughts on the matter, not the polite conversation of parlors.” 

Quentin furrowed his brow. “Clearly, you have an alternative in mind, then,” he said, caught with curiosity on Margo’s “schemes of an intimate nature.” She grinned, and tapped him under the chin with a slim finger. 

“Eliot and I have a favored pastime,” Margo continued. “I haven’t indulged since—well, I’ve missed him too dearly. But I thought perhaps now, you and I might enjoy it together. ” 

“I—um.” Quentin wracked his brain for what such activities Margo and Eliot might have indulged in , and he came up with nothing that would be appropriate for him to share with his lover’s wife. “Forgive me asking, Margo, but. Well. Would it be chaste?” 

To his surprise, Margo laughed out loud. 

“My dear Q,” she replied, smiling as she led him upstairs by the hand, “It will be as chaste as you make it.” 

He didn’t question her further as they reached the top of the stairs. She called for Fen, instructing the very indulging lady’s maid to locate Quentin one of Eliot’s old robes to have the bath prepared for them. 

Quentin hoped his eyes weren’t too round as the instruction was made. 

“Lavender, I think, for our scent,” she said, tapping her chin. “We shall need any aid in sleeping tonight, I daresay.”

Quentin blushed but followed instructions to undress and meet Margo in the bathroom once Fen had gotten her ready. 

If Fen was scandalized, the poor woman didn’t show it. She located Quentin a robe and went to check the temperature of the water and tend to Margo, leaving him to wait for her outside the door of the master bedroom. 

He wrung his hands, swallowing repeatedly to clear the lump in his throat. Yes, he knew of this ritual. Honored between Margo and Eliot, he had never thought that he would be included. The only time he had used Margo’s treasured copper tub had been when she had plucked him from the throes of melancholia, and even then he had been alone. 

“My lady is ready for you,” Fen said, reappearing a moment later with Margo’s gown over no her arm. “I’ll have Franz leave a clean set of clothes for you.”

Quentin managed a smile, hoping it wasn’t frightening in his anxiety. 

“Thank you, Fen.” He took a deep breath, adding: “I hope you realize this isn’t–”

“It’s not my place to pass judgement, sir,” Fen gently corrected him. “Will you be needing anything else?”

With a shake of his head Fen nodded and continued down the stairs, leaving Quentin with the weight of his own decisions. Those he had made in the past, the many that waited for him in the near future.

He padded slowly through Margo’s room, his feet a whisper against the floor, to the bathroom door. He knocked.

“Come in.”

He followed the order and was treated to the sight of Margo lounged supine in the copper tub before him, completely bare. The steaming water cast a light fragrance throughout the small room, tickling his senses. Her gaze was warm and tinged with a bit of nervousness, he was relieved to see. 

“My lady…”

Her lips parted, a small smile gracing her lips. 

“Pour us some wine, before you get in, Quentin.” 

He nodded, his hands shaking as he poured them both generous servings of the rich red. She took her glass with a soft hand, beckoning for him to join her. 

“I promise I won’t bite.”

They shared a shallow laugh, and Margo lowered her gaze to examine her fingernails. He turned his back to her, untying his robe and slipping it from his shoulders. She lifted her knees as he slipped into the warm water, lavender scent in the water filling his senses. Once settled, he turned his gaze on her. 

Margo hadn’t proven false, the activity was not nearly as scandalous as he had thought. Though they were both naked down to their skin, the water height and the perfumes clouding it kept almost everything a mystery. 

Margo sipped her wine, playing with the oil floating in the water with her fingertips. Quentin relaxed as the warmth soaked into his tired muscles. 

“This is lovely.”

Margo smiled. “I thought you might think so. Especially after that inn’s accommodations.”

He laughed at his own foolishness. It had been a different man that had left days ago. “Eliot always says that you know best.”

“Well, he’s wise in one way at least.” 

Another moment passed. Quentin took a deep draught from his glass before setting it on the side table, and leaned back so that he was fully reclined against the warm copper. Breathing deep, he imagined Eliot in his place, enjoying a sensual moment with his dear wife and friend. Limbs entangled, their skin slick from the oil…

“Q?”

He lifted his head, realizing that his eyes had fallen shut in his daydreaming. 

“Hm?”

“You aren’t tired, are you?” she asked, reservation clouding her tone.

He sat up, giving the question some thought. He hadn’t slept well the night before, but his mind was clear and alert, despite his aching muscles. 

“Not in the slightest.”

Her smile was thin. She took another sip of wine. 

“Good. I need you to be in sound mind.”

Quentin furrowed his brow. Margo appeared… nervous? He couldn’t guess why, after all the frank conversation between them in the study. 

She laughed, a frustrated sound. “I’m afraid I don’t have a good preamble to what I am about to ask.” She lowered her eyes to the water once more. “All the small talk in the world couldn’t prepare you.”

“I find directness to be refreshing, my lady,” he reassured in a soft voice. “Whatever it is, ask me, and I will give you my honest answer.”

She finally looked at him again, her gaze near piercing. 

He held it. He would not be weak. Her lips parted to speak. 

“Q, how much do you love Eliot?” She asked. “What would you sacrifice for him?” 

Quentin had to swallow, eyes still on Margo, hyper aware of the brush of their knees and the soft slosh of water in the otherwise silent room. 

“No part of being with Eliot is a sacrifice,” he answered slowly, then considering his words: “Or I should say, no cost could weigh against my loving him.” 

“Even marriage? Children? Your own household?” 

“I have already had this out with Eliot,” Quentin replied, impatient. “Such sacraments would be hollow—worthless—unless I could share them with him. Or, or—“

Or  _ you _ , his mind supplied. With her hair pinned up and face washed clean, Margo had never looked more beautiful as she slowly smiled. There was a sadness to it, something that Quentin couldn’t name. It was as though she had read his thoughts. 

“I spent much of your absence thinking of families,” Margo said. “And children. The boundaries of marriage, even. The covenants that might exist between those with the imagination.” 

“My lady?” 

“It was a great sadness, that Eliot and I were unable to conceive,” she continued, expression solemn. “But also a great danger to us both, especially if Eliot wished to pursue his desires freely. It is part of the reason Eliot fears to commit himself to you now. Do you see his reasoning?” 

“I—yes,” Quentin agreed, though it weighed heavy on his heart. In a childless house, Eliot’s every friendship and acquaintance was shadowed by the threat of suspicion. And worse still, Quentin’s presence in their home—without even the veneer of protection that an occupied nursery provided—only heightened the danger that Vienna’s fascination with Eliot’s exotic flamboyance could turn sour. Swept up in the fervor of romance, Quentin had been able to banish such worries, but now… 

“That isn’t how one likes thinking of children,” he said, “But of course I understand, Margo.” 

“They would have been dearly loved, Q.” Margo said, swirling the claret in her glass. “Lord knows, they would be more dearly loved than most.” 

“Of course,” Quentin agreed, “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.” 

“I know.” 

“He never spoke of it to me—I can imagine now why,” Quentin said, drawing his fingers across the surface of the water absently. “But you would know, better than any—did Eliot want to be a father?” 

Margo hummed, thoughtful, sinking down into the water until it reached her chin. Her toes brushed high on Quentin’s thigh (perhaps unintentional, he told himself— or perhaps not). He dared sink one hand under the steaming water to clasp her bare ankle in his hand, stroking his thumb over the knob of it. Margo met his eye then, her gaze warm and fond. At last she sighed. 

“I can’t say that he did,” She said, lips pursed as if recollecting, “Not in the way I imagine some men are driven to be so. Not until we were married, at least.”

Margo’s gaze turned loving, and sad. Quentin squeezed her ankle, knowing she was thinking of her husband. 

“But you should have heard him speak of it, once the idea really took hold in our minds,” she said, voice low. “A family of our own. All on our own terms. His own childhood—his father, I mean— he told me you spoke of this.” 

Quentin nodded. “A hard man, and harder still to Eliot.” 

“Yes.” A low throb of anger crossed Margo’s features, then softened as she continued. “Eliot had his...reservations, but we spent so many nights on our honeymoon, planning for when the time came. My father was neglectful and belittling of me, but Eliot spoke of how our children would know only love. How we would raise them as partners. Eliot—I wish you could have seen him, allowing himself to dream of fatherhood. It was beautiful. Like when a sonata forms in his mind’s eye.” 

“But it was not to be,” Quentin concluded gently. 

Margo blinked, as if emerging from a dream. Her eye on him was sharp, as if he had spoken out of turn. 

“Is it not?” 

Quentin swallowed, unsure of his footing. “Forgive me, Margo, but I don’t see how.” 

“Eliot is blinded,” Margo continued, looking down at the water as if she were speaking to herself. “And so are you. Men often are, by the limits of convention. Propriety. He thinks little of the unconventional— the possibilities of life when you do not follow the much trod upon path.”

Quentin parted his lips, watching her every move. 

“Which path would you recommend for him? For all of us? If you could control destiny?”

Margo smiled, truly an ancient goddess then. She held the thread of fate tight, cutting it decisively with her next words. 

“Fathering children is not strictly in Eliot’s nature, but he would have loved them because they were ours,” Margo said, and then, pausing, as though she had finally crossed the bridge of uncertainty, “...I am certain he would love them doubly if they were yours as well.”

Quentin blinked. His mind was seized by an image, a moving scene. A child, hair dark and curled at the roots like Margo. He was sat at the parlor piano, and guiding his tiny hands onto the keys was Quentin’s beloved. Eliot smiled at the boy’s giggles, patient and loving as he guiding him in plunking out a simple melody. One of his broad hands rested on their son’s back, helping him keep his balance on a bench comically oversized for such a little one. Eliot glanced over his shoulder, and the warmth of his gaze when it caught Quentin’s was enough to make his heart stutter in the present. 

He blinked again, and there was Margo across from him, watching him nervously. This was why he loved her so– she would have the courage to ask directly for the one solution that would make the three of them a family. The one sacrifice Eliot could never bear to name– 

“They would—could—be conceived of our union,” she continued, as if thinking him aghast at the proposition. “They would have two fathers, after a fashion. Born of your bloodline and mine, and from Eliot—“

“His name,” Quentin breathed, the realization burning through him. “They would bear his name. He would be father to our children.” 

“That is all the world would know,” Margo agreed. “Children, born of holy matrimony in the normal way of things, and our dear friend—a talented artist unsuited to marriage—allowed to stay in our home, our great act of Christian charity.”

He nodded, head spinning. “Yes–it’s perfect.”

She pursed her lips. “But Q–the sacrifice you would be making–”

“That’s nothing,” he said, mind awash with the possibilities. He could have them both,  _ serve _ them both, give them  _ children _ —

Margo stopped his racing thoughts with a hand on his wrist, leaning forward in the tub with a look of great solemnity. 

“It isn’t nothing,” she corrected him. “It is the farthest thing from nothing, to keep such a secret. To give Eliot—and me—that power over you. You would be so vulnerable in the eyes of the world, unmarried and childless.”

“Yes. I see the gravity of it.” Margo spoke the truth. Quentin would make the greatest sacrifice of them all, to never be able to publicly acknowledge his own flesh and blood. It was exactly the kind of devotion that Eliot could never bring himself to ask for. It was the exact kind of devotion that Quentin was desperate to offer him. 

“But even so,” Quentin continued. “Children, Margo. Born of love, and raised in it.” 

“There would be many joys,” Margo agreed. “A family for those of our natures is a precious and rare thing, even if it requires unconventional means.”

“And we—” Quentin hardly dared ask, but he couldn’t look away from Margo as he voiced his deepest imaginings. “In our home—that is behind closed doors— would I be—” 

“Shared between us, and we with you.” Margo’s grip on the edge of the bath went tight, her toes flexing against Quentin’s thigh. “All three of us, Quentin, as I dream of it.” 

“I have as well,” Quentin confessed. “Would Eliot agree?” 

“How could he not?” Margo held her chin high as she sat up, though Quentin could see the flicker of uncertainty behind her eyes. “After all, it was his love that brought us together. He practically composed this opera himself.” 

Quentin thought on that for a moment. “You know, Todd said—” 

He had to pause for a moment, and laugh, to speak of Eliot’s ever proprietous butler as he lounged naked in the bath with a married woman. Margo smiled, slim and sharp and he knew she shared in the joke. 

“Anyway,” he continued, pushing the damp locks of hair back from his eyes. “Todd said, what Eliot needs is someone who can match him in the depths of his devotion.” 

“That certainly sounds like Eliot,” Margo agreed, watching Quentin with interest. “What do you say about it?” 

Quentin wet his lips. “I would say that there is nothing I long for more in this world than to give myself to you,” he said, then clarified: “Both of you. I would say that my life belongs to Eliot, and that with his blessing I would spend it as devoted to you as he is.” 

Margo closed her eyes, and tipped her head back, a smile playing at her lips. It was as though Quentin’s words were a piece of music that she wished to savor, and he was washed anew with love for her. 

Eventually, she nodded, almost to herself. 

“Sweetly put, darling,” she declared, and the endearment zinged through Quentin like a jolt of lightning. “That is what we shall tell him.” 

Their fate decided. Margo stretched her arms over her head with a yawn. Quentin, shy again despite the stark intimacy of what they had just promised each other, drew his eyes away from how the movement displayed her bare breasts.

“The water is getting cold,” she said after her yawn. “Come along, Q.” 

It was a delicate thing, getting out of the tub. Baths always left Quentin feeling as though his limbs were made of lead after the weightlessness of water. They towelled off separately, soaking up the water and oil and that beaded up on their skin while avoiding each other’s eyes, as if without the warm cocoon of copper around them the awkwardness and guilt would return. Quentin didn’t want that. 

He spied the clean chemise set out by Fen on the side table. He took it in hand, and Margo looked at him quizzically. 

“May I?” he asked, hoping that would be enough to make her understand.

She glanced at the garment he held, and then down at her own body covered in the thick towel. 

“I–” she started, voice thick. “You may.”

The towel fell from her with a soft exhale of sound, in time with the rhythm of Quentin’s heart as she bared herself before him. Now equal in their state of nakedness, Quentin swallowed hard, letting the chemise in his hands fall from its folded state. It was soft and worn against his skin, obviously not her newest or finest garment, but perhaps a favorite? Something comforting and familiar to wear when all matters of convention and propriety sat voided before her. 

“Raise your arms?” 

She nodded and stretched her arms above her head, and Quentin pulled the thin cotton chemise over her bath-warm skin, smoothing the seams over her shoulders. She watched him curiously as he took the strings in his hand and pulled, cinching the neckline slightly tighter. His fingers shook as he tied a clumsy knot to keep it secure. 

“Sorry,” he said, his voice a broken whisper, a frantic laugh. “I’m not sure how–”

She smiled and stilled his hand with her own, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. 

“It’s perfect,” she breathed, looking up at him through dark eyelashes. 

He swallowed. She released his hand and he settled them now on her waist, touching not skin but cotton. 

He knew how he was supposed to feel, standing in a state of complete undress in front of a woman married to the man he loved more than anything in the world. He was supposed to feel guilty, wrong, shallow and fiendish and  _ weak.  _

She sighed a shaking breath as she absorbed his touch. It felt right. Not the same as Eliot’s touch, as his love. Different, but not entirely foreign. 

She lifted one hand, pressing her palm to his bare chest, over his heart. It raced. 

“Help me with my hair?” 

Quentin nodded, and after slipping on his drawers he let Margo guide his hands to the simple knot at the back of her head. With little trouble he found the few pins holding the style in place. 

“Do you think he will accept us?” Margo asked, her voice a whisper as he worked. It was easier to hear such a thing voiced with her back to him. 

Quentin took a shaking breath, and dragged his fingers through the smooth curls of Margo’s hair as it fell loose around her shoulders. “I can only pray that he does.”

His hands fell to her shoulders, thumbs rubbed circles over the cotten covering her, almost touching her but not completely. She shivered. 

“Will you stay with me?” She curled her fingers over his hand, stilling his touch. “Tonight?”

He swallowed with a click. “Margo…”

“To sleep. Just to sleep.” She took her hand away, reaching for his shirt where he had draped it over a side table and handing it to him. 

He pulled it over his head. 

“To sleep.”

Margo’s bedroom was tidied and ready for the night when they stepped through the bathroom door. A single candle flickered on the nightstand, set atop a novel bound in green. A ribbon marked her place in the middle. 

The covers were already turned down. Through some unknown code between lady and lady’s maid, Fen must have already turned in for the evening, leaving them completely alone. 

The sheets were smooth as they slid between them. They faced each other, the dim candlelight casting them in almost all shadow. 

She blinked, her legs fidgety under the covers. He swallowed, trying to keep still. 

“Perhaps–”

“Only one–”

They laughed together, breaking the tension. 

She swallowed, wetting her lips. 

“One kiss. And then sleep.”

He nodded, frantically, and they came together. 

Despite the desire that burned through his very soul, it was a chaste thing, this kiss. She parted her lips, but didn’t seek to deepen it. Her fingers were a feather’s touch against his chest, stroking a trail along the open collar of his shirt, only a whisper again bare skin. 

She smiled when they parted, and he groaned, shoving his face face into the pillow. She laughed at his antics, stroking a hand down his arm in what was probably supposed to be a comforting gesture. 

He made a muffled noise of frustration, but it didn’t hold any seriousness. When he lifted his face, he took in the sight of her. Her hair curled wildly and splayed across her pillow, her eyes bright and smiling even through their tiredness. She was sharp, and hard, but she had always softened for Eliot. And now she softened for him. Him– the luckiest man alive to have known the love of the greatest people he had ever met. 

She allowed him to gather her in his arms, his chest pressed against her back, and one arm draped over her waist, the other cradling her head. 

“It is a curious thing,” he mused. “To think that the three of us could be–” he stopped, thinking of the words.

She settled deeper into his embrace through the silence. “It’s almost impossible to voice, isn’t it?”

He nodded against the back of her neck. “We could be though, couldn’t we? Beyond merely having children together, I mean. We could be something entirely different–a new type of union–and yet the same as we have always been.” 

“It’s hard not to think such an unknown wouldn’t be a sin.”

“It wouldn’t be,” Quentin said with conviction, holding her tighter. “We would not be known to society, but we could hold our heads tall before God.”

She sighed. “As if we were vowed to each other?”

“Just so. Unashamed. I could share your joys and your sorrows,” Quentin said, thinking of the vows granted only to spouses. “Promise to honor and obey you, as you and Eliot have pledged to each other.”

Margo shivered, but it was not a fearful reaction. Her hip flexed under his hand, and he flushed, thinking about how she would feel against him in a passionate way if she granted him the honor. 

“My hands, my mouth—“ Quentin’s tongue darted out to wet his lips as if to taste the idea. Taste  _ her.  _ “I could serve your pleasure, as Eliot does.” 

“Quentin,” she breathed, shivering.

“I could be yours.” 

“We would belong only to each other.” 

“All three of us.” 

“Yes.” Margo’s cheek was painted red, whether from the heat of the bath or a more tempting fever he couldn’t say. “Quentin, I—“

“You don’t have to say anything. We shall have to wait and see.”

She nodded, letting her body fall back so that he was truly holding her in his arms. He felt like the luckiest man alive in that moment, to be granted such a decadent privilege. 

“It’s something of an irony, Eliot wanting me to marry,” Quentin mused, murmuring the sleepy thought into the curve of Margo’s neck. “For after all this time, I could only hold one woman as a wife in my heart.”

“Oh?”

“Mm, and he married her first.”

It wasn’t a confession of love. And yet, Quentin felt Margo tense as Eliot had on Christmas Eve, when he had spoken the infamous words against the skin of his most precious face. It was too much, too fast, too genuine.

So when she relaxed into his embrace, sighing contentedly, it was a surprise to see a slight smile grace her lips. 

“What a poet you are, Herr Coldwater.” She lifted his hand from her waist, lacing their fingers together. “I think we shall have many fine adventures. The three of us.”

“When Eliot comes home,” Quentin murmured in sleepy agreement. The heat of the bath and the warm content presence of the woman in his arms finally seeped the strain of the last few days from his bones, and with a relieved sigh Quentin closed his eyes and slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you thank you thank you! we're getting near to our climax, folks.
> 
> Next: Eliot has made some new friends, and is surprised by a dear (and oft mentioned) old one.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear readers! It's been a while, but we have been hard at work bringing this story to its homestretch. You might have noticed that we have a definitive end to the chapter count now. 
> 
> We rejoin Eliot in Paris, where things might be looking up...

_ July, 1837  
_ _ Paris, France _

It was the queerest thing, Eliot thought as he looked around the tiny room. 

He couldn’t have imagined the scene before him had he tried. Julia Wicker practiced a waltz at the dressing room’s upright piano. Her maid– _ Kady– _ Eliot remembered, sat on the narrow sofa with her feet up, drawing voraciously in what was no doubt Julia’s sketch book. Eliot himself sat at the desk, answering a rather dry letter.

If you had told him a year ago–nay,  _ a month ago,  _ that he would be spending his sparse free moments before a performance in a cramped dressing room in the back of the theater with two women of differing social class who were– 

His heart stuttered. 

_ Lovers.  _

Well, Eliot would have said it was unexpected. But he counted himself fortunate to enjoy their company now. One was not so urgently driven to drink in the company of new friends.

“If you keep staring, I might decide to charge you an admission fee,” Kady said, not looking up from her drawing. 

Eliot smiled, shaking his head. Kady was not a bad artist, though her subject matter was a bit narrow, if not entirely singular. Julia at the piano, Julia looking out the window, Julia answering correspondence with a serious expression. Even Julia while in a state of undress Eliot was never meant to see, spied accidentally when Kady flipped through the pages too slowly. 

She drew her from behind now, her shoulders square and strong, complemented by the square sound box of the piano in front of her. She added a tendril of hair to Julia’s head where it had fallen from the knot at the base of her neck. Julia herself was an unruly model, twisting and moving about the bench as she worked a particular passage to death with repetition. 

“How about a rest, Julia?” he suggested, exchanging a dry glance with Kady, who seemed to endure Julia’s over practicing with the patience only a lover could manage.

“It must be perfect,” Julia murmured, unturning. She retained her focus and began the passage again. 

Watching her work the last weeks had been a study in different pianistic habits, one that Eliot had never been privy to before. He hadn’t grown up around musicians, even his service to Lord Fogg somewhat isolated in Pest. And when he met Quentin, he found their practice and philosophies to be much the same. They focused on the expression of the music far more than technical perfection. But Julia was far more methodical in her approach, and it showed in her near flawless performances. 

Even when he wasn’t in the room, the specter of Reynard loomed over Julia’s shoulder, pressing her for  _ more.  _ More dance-like, more tempo, more… perfection. 

She practiced her programs in a rigid order, never straying from the pre-prescribed path. In contrast, Eliot’s practice was wild and untrained, despite his obvious expertise. Eliot ingested new and tricky music like a fine meal, but Julia only looked upon a challenge with suspicion of sabotage. 

Eliot pursed his lips as he remembered how she had been so charmed by Quentin’s  _ Carnaval,  _ a charming set of character works based on Quentin’s experiences during the Vienna social season. Masked ladies, sweeping waltzes: the set was a delight. Eliot had requested the score from Bauer, as hungry for Quentin’s music as ever, but Julia had taken it from his hands as soon as he had demonstrated a bars. It was as if Quentin himself had been playing–her fast fingers and lighter style suited the short and humorous pieces perfectly, and he had suggested that she play it for one of their upcoming concerts. 

“I couldn’t possibly,” she had said in the wings of the theater, her arms full of flowers from admirers. She spoke in a low voice, her father speaking animatedly to a critic just behind them. “My programs have been chosen–and my father certainly wouldn’t approve of me memorizing something so fast.”

“But what do  _ you _ think?”

She had frowned and turned away to greet a guest violinist then, avoiding the question. Eliot, uncontrolled by his own agent, let alone Reynard, had added Quentin’s  _ Fantasie in C Major  _ to his repertoire along with the full suite of  _ Fantasiestucke.  _ Playing Quentin’s music, at least, was a way for him to feel connected with his home, even if every letter he started to write ended up as ashes in the hearth. Parisian critics praised Quentin’s music without reservation, its hospitable German quality a great novelty among the cosmopolitan elite. Their love brought Eliot great solace, for he always hoped for the success of Quentin’s music, even in his absence. 

Julia finished her last repetition with the  _ clunk  _ of an incorrect chord. She banged on the keys in frustration.

“It was perfect ten minutes ago,” Eliot said in a sing-song voice. “Repetition is the enemy of the spontaneous artist.”

Julia whipped around, affronted, but the playful squint to her eyes spoke that she was aware of his tease. 

“You could have used a few spare repetitions on your own rhapsody, Herr Waugh,” she said, wagging her finger in her direction. “I swear last night I heard only one or two notes kept sacred in the middle chorale section. A dreadful mistake.”

“Mistake?” he laughed. “I don’t make mistakes. Only inspired improvisations.”

Julia rolled her eyes, opening her mouth to retort. 

“Oh would you both stuff it?” Kady interject, holding up her charcoal like Joan of Arc waging her sword. “I’m trying to get one decent sketch in before the concert, but I can’t work if you’re going to bicker all afternoon.”

Julia stood with a scrape of the piano bench, walking over to Kady and bending over her to press a kiss to her lips. It was immediately effective in silencing her, and even through the kiss, Kady smiled. 

Eliot turned his eyes away.His cheeks were warm, though not from any disapproval of Julia’s display, however bold. No, his shame was that of envy. With a heavy heart, he signed his letter to Herr Bauer, assuring the man that he would write another  _ Consolation _ to make up for the lack of marketable music coming from him as of late, folding it and stowing it away to be sealed when he returned to his apartment later. Menial task done, he returned to the manuscript he had been editing before. 

Julia and Kady made conversation with each other, content to pretend that they were the only two women left on planet Earth, and Eliot barely noticed when Julia stood in front of him. 

“What’s this?” Julia asked, picking up a book half-buried beneath manuscript paper on the desk.

Eliot blanched as she held the book up to her eyes, examining the cover. He would recognize the dark blue binding anywhere: Quentin’s gift from Christmas. A book of poetry from his very own poet. It was small enough to fit in his pocket, and he carried it everywhere. 

“Some poetry,” he said lamely. “It was a Christmas gift. Last year.” 

Julia nodded, flipping through the pages until she was at the blank inside cover. Eliot rubbed the back of his neck as she read the inscription. He knew it by heart, had memorized the slant of the handwriting, the dot of extra ink left behind by an unruly pen. The words had burned into his eyelids on bumpy carriage rides through the European wilds. Had echoed through his mind during these many lonely nights. 

They haunted him.

_ E, _

_ I shall have no other God before thee.  _

_ ~ Q _

Julia closed the book with a snap, a blush painting her cheeks. “Sorry, that was obviously private.”

Eliot shrugged, shaking his head. “I didn’t stop you.”

Julia absentmindedly pet a finger over the front cover. “Quentin is still as fine with words as he always was.”

“Indeed. A poet.”

Eliot hadn’t given much thought to how Julia had been offered Quentin’s eternal companionship; he had been more focused on her refusal to support him professionally, he had nearly forgotten that the woman in front of him had once been the object of his affections. 

“A master of the written word, he is.” She smiled, laughing softly to herself. “Not so much the spoken kind, I’m afraid.”

The sentiment held no meanness, and Eliot smiled to think about how Quentin did trip over his words, especially when talking about topics he was most passionate about. He never stuttered on words of love, however. 

“What does it mean?” Julia asked, opening the book once more to flip through the pages again, slower this time. Her eyes lingered over every poem. “If you don’t mind my continued prying.”

“I don’t,” Eliot assured. “And your guess is as good as mine. It was meant to be a riddle between us, something to get me to read the book but–we became busy after Christmas and–” 

He swallowed, the night of the opera and its after effects flashing through his mind. After discovering she and Kady in their affectionate embrace, he and Julia had shared a bottle of claret, sitting in the upper rafters of the theater. Only then in the safety of the empty theater had he told her the true nature of his relationship to Quentin. She had poured the wine and he had spoken, weaving the tale of he and Quentin’s romance, and its ultimate undoing in his cowardice. She had listened without judgement.

“Well, you can imagine,” he finished. “I have read every poem in the book three times over, and I still don’t understand to what he referred to.”

Julia pursed her lips. “Knowing Q, there is probably some sort of clue. He wouldn’t want you to struggle so much that you never found it.”

She returned the book to his desk. 

“I’m afraid I’ve never been the literary type,” he admitted. “Despite my enjoyment of my wife’s novels.”

She snorted a laugh, and lowered herself to the sofa, lifting Kady’s feet to rest in her lap. 

“Have you asked him about it in your letters to him?”

Eliot bit his lip hard enough to sting. 

“Well, you see, I haven’t written to him. Not since I was in Pest.”

Julia’s brow furrowed. “You’ve received at least three letters from him alone since we’ve been acquainted as friends. And that is only when we’ve been in the same room.”

“Yes, well–”

“You’re saying that you haven’t responded to any?”

Eliot hung his head. “I don’t know what to say to him.”

Julia pursed her lips. It was pity. 

“I’m sure any response would be better than none.”

Eliot didn’t say to Julia that he had no intention of writing Quentin back, not until he knew how to right the many wrongs he had committed in abandoning him in Vienna. Until he could offer a path  _ forward _ , and not just empty promises of love and future ruin. Until such a miracle occured Quentin was best left free to seek his own future.

“Did your lover-boy write anything else in the book?” Kady asked, suddenly mildly interested. She still added to her sketch despite Julia’s disregard for her pose. 

Eliot shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Messages don’t have to be written in ink,” she continued, smearing a bit of charcoal. “When we were in Leipzig Julia passed messages to me written in coffee, so that it might easily pass for a bit of trash.”

Eliot looked down at the little blue book again, its presence innocuous but its meaning vast and terrifying. Quentin never did anything lightly, but who was to say that any message Quentin had meant in December would still be honored now, after all of Eliot’s mistakes?

A knock sounded at the door. 

Kady scrambled to her feet, throwing the sketchbook into Julia’s lap where she turned to a blank page. Kady set about looking busy. The door opened, and to anyone it appeared that Julia was sketching a teacup and Eliot was composing while Kady folded her mistress’s shawls. 

“I’m sorry to disturb you Herr Waugh, Fraulein Wicker, but a letter has just arrived for you,” said the theater attendant, the long suffering Jean-Luc that had shouldered some of Eliot’s burdens in Todd’s absence. “The carrier went to your apartment and the landlord sent him here.”

Eliot sighed. Poor Jean-Luc. He didn’t envy the man to have to keep up with his affairs. 

“Thank you.” He took the letter, the paper already familiar in its color. Another letter from Quentin. “I appreciate your efforts to search me out.”

“It wasn’t a problem, sir. Could I get you anything else?”

“No, thank you.”

Jean-Luc flicked a bit of hair out of his face, looking harried but no less attractive. Besides generous tips, he wasn’t truly in Eliot’s employ, and had no obligation to do him such favors. Eliot thought of who he had once been, who would have ensnared such a pretty man in no less than a day. Having known Quentin’s tender love, the idea of such fleeting connections filled Eliot with only heartache now. 

“My pleasure, sir.” Jean-Luc turned to where Julia sat on the sofa. “Fraulein, they need you on stage, the manager would like to have a word about tonight’s performance and the positioning of the piano.”

Julia furrowed her brow. “Is my father here? Usually he makes such decisions.”

Jean-Luc fidgeted nervously. “I don’t think so, Fraulein. They seem more than willing to take your expert opinion, however.”

Julia nodded, her face still clouded with reservation. She touched Eliot’s shoulder on the way out, a supportive gesture. 

“We can finish our discussion later.”

He nodded and smiled, not wanting to appear too aghast at a mere letter. Once she and Jean-luc had taken their leave, he turned the letter over in his hands, Quentin’s handwriting a messier scrawl that usual in its address. 

Kady re-settled herself on the sofa, taking the sketch book in hand but making new moves to continue drawing. She watched curiously as Eliot opened the letter and began to read. 

_ Eliot, _

_ You ought to give your valet a raise, as he has done you a great act of service this day. He has shared with me such truths as to make my heart break with pity and burn in anger.  _

_ I speak, of course, of the Baron. And to the story Todd has blessedly shared I say this: you fool.  _

_ This is what you throw away your happiness for? I was given a tale of a storybook monster, one who set you under a spell so cruel that you would think that  _ _ you _ _ were the villain and not he. You were a  _ _ boy _ _ , tender and hungry for kindness only to be taught the cruelest of lessons.  _

_ And now this villain haunts our friendship so deeply that you would think I, a man who holds only the kindest regard for you, body and soul, could ever treat you in the same manner? That I would count you a heavy and ill-fitting yoke around my neck, something to be disposed of?  _

_ What will it take, Eliot, to prove myself a friend to you, and not the next in a line of cold-hearted swindlers? I wait here in Vienna, having received no word for months that I also remain in your affection, and still you would paint me with the brush of fear and mistrust. I, who only seek to spend all my hours in your happy company.  _

_ Having heard the facts of the issue from Todd I am at least solved of the great mystery of your behavior, but my heart aches to know that you will cling to that guilt at the cost of those dearest to you.  _

_ You must find the strength to face us. And until you do, I shall wait. I trust your heart, as it is both God and Devil, light and darkness, to me. I wait for you in earnest, so that you might look upon my eyes and trust what it is you see.  _

_ I am your obedient etc.  _

_ Quentin _

Eliot read the letter twice, shocked at Quentin’s frank prose. Never had Quentin spoken so plainly to him, without the soft shield of poetry. It wasn’t dangerous, someone reading it might assume it a quarrel between two friends, but his feelings were made direct. Only in his closing lines did he indulge in metaphor, and even in them Eliot sensed something familiar, a code that he did not yet have the key to break. 

Kady cleared her throat. “News from home?”

Eliot looked up. Kady was but a common maid, unused to the carousel of small talk produced by aristocrats and even the middle class. She had no reason to be concerned for him, or to show it so openly, but here he was, with yet another friend of which he was undeserving. 

He folded the letter, placing it in his jacket pocket for safekeeping. “Yes. Another from Quentin.”

“Something upsetting?”

Eliot sat back in his chair, rocking precariously on its spindly legs. 

“Noting life-threatening, but yes..” 

He swallowed, looking at the ceiling. Paint cracked and peeled, forming bubbled sheets that threatened to fall upon them like snow. Kady waited, sensing that he had more to say. 

“It would seem that he has learned a rather… negative detail about my past.”

Kady brow furrowed. “And this... changed his good opinion of you?”

He shook his head, laughing in disbelief. “No he–he still regards me the same. Or claims to. Calls me a fool for ever thinking otherwise.”

When he met her eyes again, Eliot began to speak, and the words flew him like a flock of birds from a lightning struck tree. He told her the story of Baron Mikhail Ivanovich and of the boy who had never known love only to be showered with it. Mikhail had shown him that he could love in a way that was true to his nature, that he didn’t have to live falsely, reject him in favor of an advantageous marriage. But…

“My love for him was too much,” he concluded, the words thickening in his mouth. “I clung to him like a child, thinking I could claim him only for my own, and it turned our bond sour. I see now that my affections were a burden to him. If I had held myself in more moderation then perhaps he—well. Perhaps things might not have ended so...unfortunately.”

Kady’s brow, always in somewhat of a furrowed state, deepened at his last words. 

“So you… blame yourself for the baron’s actions?”

Eliot nodded, tracing the wood grain on the desk. “Who else is there to blame? How else can you explain his change towards me?” He lowered the chair back down to four legs with a resounding  _ thunk.  _ “I misjudged the permanence of our attachment. Some liaisons are only meant to be brief.”

There was a pause as Kady crafted her response. 

“I find that story skewed in one party’s favor,” she said. “When one man is so much older, more experienced, and acts in so cruel a manner towards a younger lover I find I have very little sympathy for him.” 

Eliot raised his eyebrows. From Margo, or Quentin, Eliot expected such sentiments, but Julia’s lover certainly held no such misguided loyalties. 

“There can be no true promises made among men of our natures,” he attempted to clarify. “I was foolish to think that Mikahil spoke true, when I should have known that such trifles are not reserved for men like us. He meant to gift me sweet nothings, no more.”

She set the sketchbook on the table before her, folding her hands in her lap. 

“So you are saying that the promises you made Quentin were false? That your feelings for him are mere play?”

The thought set Eliot’s stomach to turn. “Of course not–but that is what  _ I _ feel. What is fair to ask another to reciprocate is another thing entirely–”

“Because,” she spoke over him. “It appears to me that you  _ do  _ have a man willing to make such promises, in the way that people of our natures, as you say, can make them. Why are your feelings true and his are merely misguided?”

The words hit Eliot, and the clock ticked upon the mantel, punctuating each moment of silence. 

“You misunderstand, I think,” Eliot said, keeping accusation from his voice. 

“I think I understand perfectly.” 

Kady had a sharpness about her, but it wasn’t cruelty. Her gaze was a shade away from pity, landing somewhere nearer to empathy. 

“Do you know who you sound like, speaking of this Mikhail?” she asked. 

“I can’t say that I do.” 

“You sound like Julia, when she defends her father.” 

Eliot found himself struck dumb, Kady’s words ringing through him like the toll of a bell. 

“I would hardly call my past situation alike with hers, madame,” he stammered. “The ways of fathers are different from those of lovers.”

“It seems perfectly alike to me, at least in regards to men’s iniquities,” Kady said with an unladylike shrug. “Would you find Julia at fault for her circumstances?” 

“Certainly  _ not.” _

“Then you might extend yourself the same mercies, sir.” She stood, gathering her box of charcoals. “I do not preach that all fathers would treat their daughters the way that Reynard treats Julia, and neither should you put your Quentin in the same box as a seemingly mean, conniving Baron that stole your innocence away for his own selfish benefit. The time for you to judge all men to the same scale as this Mikhail has passed.”

Eliot didn’t know what to say to that, struck silence for nearly the third time in their conversation. 

“Thank you for your advice,” he managed. “I will… take it into consideration.”

She nodded. “Take it or leave it, I only wish for you to see reason, more than anything.”

Reason. Eliot contemplated the concept as Kady took her leave. Reason is what he had  _ thought  _ he had been using all this time. It had been  _ reasonable  _ to fall in love with Quentin in Leipzig, for he was so lovely and his music so wonderful. It had been equally reasonable to bring him home to Vienna, to help his career, to offer himself as a support beam for Quentin’s future success. And he had counted himself overly reasonable to leave, to give Quentin the freedom he so needed to make his happiness in such a cold world. 

He slowly walked back to his empty apartment, smoking a cigarette and thinking. By the time he keyed into the apartment, it had started to rain, the droplets plinking against the tin roof. In Todd’s absence, he had endeavored to keep an orderly space on his own. He had succeeded, but the tidiness only reinforced his utter loneliness when he returned here to sleep.

Striking the thought from his mind, he set about pressing his shirt and trousers for the evening’s performance. He brushed his jacket of any lint, a lighter weight that his usual velvet but no less fine. All that remained was to dress, and a quick glance at his pocket watch revealed that he had three hours to spare. He sighed, sitting down at the piano. 

He exercised his fingers and played through a few tricky passages from his newest piece. It was an epic work to be premiered tonight, a  _ Ballade  _ in the style of Chopin that was sure to bring Paris to its knees. Because he had endeavored to cut back on drink, his music had begun to make sense once more, the scattered and manic etudes giving way to more rounded themes. 

His hands grew warm, the muscles loosening and falling into place as his body recognized his most familiar duty. He played the same passage again, this time with a new harmony in the lyric section. Biting his lip thoughtfully, he reached into his folio to make a change in the sheet music, promptly cutting his finger on the sharp edge of paper. 

“Damn–” he swore as he stuck his finger in his mouth and reach instead with his left hand to fish out the manuscript, when something caught his eye. 

It was a single piece of manuscript paper, sandwiched in between two other compositions in progress. He pulled it out of the folio, taking in the title his past self had written on the top. 

_ Quentin _ , it read in simple script. 

He scanned the page, all at once remembering the theme he had composed around Christmastime, the morning after he had watched Quentin dance with another at a party. 

_ Were you jealous?  _ Quentin had asked that evening, his hands warm from drink but his eyes serious.  _ Would you rather we danced in front of the entire party? Just the two of us? Don’t you wish they could all watch me follow your lead as I was meant? _

He swallowed hard. His chest tightened as he set the music on the stand. The melody had come to him then, but he hadn’t filled in the harmony until after fighting with Quentin after the opera, playing it softly in the aftermath of their quarrel with Quentin’s head on his shoulder. 

_ Such a nice melody–but you moved it to the tenor voice. Why? _

Eliot pursed his lips as he remembered his own reply. 

_ So then I could imagine it was you singing it to me. _

And indeed, as he played through the theme, it was Quentin. Warm and strong, the melody was a line of thought unfinished, meandering as Quentin often did when he spoke of the love in his heart. Love for music, and love for Eliot. Most of all, the theme, what with it’s calm range and cascading cadenza following it, showed Eliot’s love for the man who had stolen his heart with his music and kept it with his words. 

But then… nothing.The cadenza trailed off into nothing, a hanging thread.

His hands hovered over the keys. The page in front of him was blank, but now, months later, he felt he could continue it. He wet his lips and continued, seeking the theme out again, this time in a higher register. 

It was simple in its new form, a restatement of similar facts. It was love, more love, but this time the theme soared, joyful and alive. In his mind’s eye, he saw Margo, sitting up in bed and wearing a lace embroidered chemise, her eyes sparkling with a new idea. He saw  _ his wife, _ the way she looked at him with the resolve of a general, steadfast and true in her love. 

Locating a pen, he transcribed the new section hastily on the backside of the first, realizing belatedly that he only had twenty minutes until he was due to arrive at the theater. As he dressed, his mind raced, playing the themes he had just composed. They were alike in melody, but so different in  _ feeling.  _ Margo and Quentin, Quentin and Margo, his two great loves. 

How could they ever be joined?

The groom spurred the horses on, carrying them quickly down the busy Paris street. He worried at his bottom lip the whole way. Just as his composition rested now in two parts, so did his life. How could he love Quentin, have him, be with him as his heart desired, and still protect his wife and give her the life she deserved? He loved her beyond all measure, her sacrifice for him too great to even give name. He couldn’t give her  _ children,  _ the one thing she had asked for in return from him. 

He tried to clear his head as he entered the back entrance of the theater, avoiding the crowd that had gathered in the front hoping to catch a glimpse of him. His thoughts tangled, he hurried backstage in the direction of his dressing room, and in his haste he nearly missed the hushed voices coming from behind a partition. He halted in his tracks when he heard Julia’s name spoken, immediately recognizing a scratchy male voice, accompanied by a moment of haughty laughter. 

He kept himself hidden, listening. 

“... She is easily controlled, I have had her firmly trained since before she could see over the breakfast table,” Reynard said. “If she objects to an American tour, I shall merely withhold something from her.” 

“What could you withhold from an adult woman that would be enough to motivate her?” said another male voice, and Eliot recognized the timbre of one of Julia’s more affluent patrons, a Parisian aristocrat that look at the neckline of Julia’s gowns more than her face in conversation. 

Reynard’s voice was matter of fact. “She is quite close with her maid, and that can work to our advantage…”

Having heard enough, Eliot turned on his heel and made for Julia’s dressing room at a clip, his feet not quick enough to match the sudden panic in his heart. 

Eliot had stood by these weeks, watching Julia bear the abuse of a man who called himself her father. He was already controlled by the specters of his past, the man who had hurt him and now haunted him. Mikhail was a poltergeist to him now, wreaking havoc and breeding mistrust in Eliot’s heart. 

He would not see it happen to Julia. He would not see her happiness taken by a monster. 

He went to her dressing room, barely enough presence of mind left in him to knock. 

“Julia,” he called, “It’s Eliot.”

She opened the door, looking a little put out by his rudeness. She was already dressed for the concert, her hair perfectly curled. She stepped aside, gesturing him in. 

“I thought you might be up to old habits again,” she said. “We’re due on stage in ten minutes–”

“You must defy your father.” Eliot interrupted, out of breath. “Play the wrong program. Dress like a grown woman. Do something.  _ Anything  _ else than what you have been doing. Anything but what your father demands of you.”

She furrowed her brow, worried. “Eliot–you’re distressed, why don’t you sit down–”

“No.” He shook his head. “This isn’t about me. I–you  _ must  _ defy your father. You must set out on your own path. Or–I think you might be destined for nothing but heartbreak. I know, I have let myself be led astray before, and I would not see this happen to you.”

“Eliot–”

“He would see you tour in America without your consent, see that Kady is taken from you if you dare to protest–”

_ “Eliot.” _

He stopped, finally turning to look at her. He realized with a jolt that she wore her hair not in ringlets or pigtails at her shoulders but piled atop her head in curls, not unlike the way Margo often wore her own. Her gown, though trimmed in cream-colored lace, was a deep, jewel-like green. 

“Yes. And I know. About America.” she said, nodding firmly. “You’re right. I’ve just received an offer– one that I believe can change everything and I,” she stopped, swallowing hard. “I must be brave.”

Eliot blinked. Whatever he had thought her response would be, it hadn’t been that. 

“An offer?” He took a step closer to her. “To What do you refer?”

“A patron. But for now…” She shook her head, taking a deep breath. She looked in the mirror above her vanity. She smoothed back a stray hair, and then looked at him, a new resolve in her eyes. 

“There’s something I must do,” she said, holding her chin high, and in her Eliot saw an artist more regal than he would ever be. There would be stories of Julia Wicker. She would grace the pages of history, and he would bear witness now. 

“Would you help me?”

He straightened his jacket and nodded, steeling himself once more. 

“Of course I will.”

Eliot walked behind her as she strode to the wings where her father waiting, his condescending expression melting away as he took in the sight of his daughter. 

“Julia– what are you–” his face turned red, anger clouding his eyes. He pasted a simpering smiled on his face, mindful of the aristocrat still beside him. “My dear, we had agreed on the rose colored gown for this occasion.”

Julia smiled coolly. “I’m afraid I changed my mind, Father. So light a color isn’t appropriate for a serious artist.”

Eliot enjoyed the sight of Reynard’s eyes widening. 

“Also,” she continued, chin high. “Would you inform the theater manager of a change in my program tonight? I’m afraid it will be much longer than previously thought.”

“And why would that be?”

“Because I will be playing a work by Quentin Coldwater, and though he is my dear friend, brevity is not his strong suit.”

Without another word, Julia gestured to the stage hand to raise the curtain, and she strode out to meet her audience. 

“This is your fault, Waugh,” Reynard hissed as Julia bowed to the applauding masses, taking her seat at the piano. “You might have the Emperor in your pocket but I’ll see you ruined–you’ll never perform outside of Vienna again–”

Eliot held up a finger, not even favoring Reynard with a glance. His eye was on Julia as she raised her hands to the keys. 

“Hush now,” he said, cutting off Reynard’s rambling. “I want to hear this.”

Reynard stopped, and Eliot heard his angry footsteps as he stormed off. He didn’t care. Julia was making  _ music,  _ at last. 

Quentin’s music. 

As Eliot suspected, she chose Quentin’s  [ _ Carnaval _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dB6UCcpeLQA) , and it was a world all its own; the world through Quentin’s eyes. Booming chords to start, perfectly voiced under Julia’s strong hands. It was followed by a waltz, each figure rushed and tripping over itself, like an inexperienced dancer caught in the euphoria of the evening’s charms. Each section was a character brought to life from the pages of a storybook, new and unique but also so, so familiar. 

In each note Eliot saw his home, the Vienna he had grown to love with Margo at his side. He smiled, laughing to himself at Quentin’s humor, his voice, interwoven so expertly in each phrase, each line…

He leaned against the wall, watching, his heart lighter than it had been in months. 

The audience leapt to their feet as soon as she finished, and Eliot barely had a moment to clasp Julia’s hand before he was rushed out onstage, his own performance nearly forgotten in the aftermath of the rousing premiere of Quentin’s  _ Carnaval.  _ Even in his astounded state, he played well, and the audience adored the  [ _ Ballade _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uBs4jtWMBj8) _ ,  _ giving it a standing ovation. Peppered in with a few transcriptions and one of his slower  _ Consolations,  _ it was a successful concert.

After greeting a few influential guests, Eliot made his way back to his dressing room, exhausted and with the beginnings of a headache, but feeling better than he had at the start of the night. For the first time since leaving Vienna, he didn’t crave a drink. 

He wasn’t surprised when he found Julia waiting for him on the sofa when he opened the door. 

“An inspired concert, Fraulein,” he said, setting down a bouquet of flowers given to him by a giggling group of admirers. “I know not what else to say.”

She smiled, mischievous. It reminded him of Margo.

“I was moved by your concern,” she said. “Thank you for that.”

He bowed his head, pulling out the desk chair and sitting. “Of course. Though you didn’t need me, in the end.”

“This has been a long time in coming,” she agreed, nodding. 

“I hope you’re not staying with your father still.”

She shook her head. “Kady packed a trunk for us this morning, and it just so happens that I was invited to board with a very generous female patron, who was very sympathetic to my plight. We’ll stay there until this residency is complete.”

“And...and this new patron?” Eliot asked. “You think they can be trusted?” 

Julia smiled. “I’m hopeful. I’ve heard you speak of him highly, at least.” 

Eliot wracked his brain to imagine who Julia might have been referring to, but they had discussed many such aristocrats in their short acquaintance and she refused to give him any further hints.

“Regardless,” Eliot declared, giving up. “I’m glad to hear it. Life should be sweeter for you, from here on out.”

“I hope so. Kady deserves better than what I have put her through.” She cleared her throat, meeting his eyes. “But your presence here, and your friendship these last weeks.... Knowing that there are others like myself, trying to make their way in an often hostile world has made all the difference.”

Eliot smiled. “And in me as well. I have had lovers that share my nature, of course, but never a friend.”

She nodded slowly. “So you will see my point then… when I say that if I can manage this, then you can find the courage to return home.”

Eliot swallowed, his throat suddenly thick. He inhaled, the breath a shaking one. 

“How can I face them?” He asked then. “How can I after I–when our fates are so unsure?”

“What makes your fate so much more tenuous than mine and Kady’s?”

“No one will question your relation to Kady,” he insisted. “With me childless.. I will only fail them, Julia, and they will pay the price. Quentin will resent me, and Margo will turn me from her heart forever.”

“They won’t.” Julia said simply. “I know they won’t because they love you. I can see it in your eyes, and I can hear it in Quentin’s music. He waits for you.” 

Eliot shook his head, but smiled. “I should hope that when we leave this place you will still count me your friend.”

She smiled again. “Of course. If you will return the favor.”

Eliot gave that promise happily, and with the promise to someday visit in Vienna Julia left him. Letting out a sigh that was half relief and half exhaustion, he pulled off his jacket for a moment and settled into the chair at his dressing table. The threat of Reynard was held at bay, and Eliot had hardly been required to lift a finger. His friends’ safety and long term happiness was all but secured. He was happy for them, but a soft kind of melancholy had taken up residence in his breast as well. 

He wasn’t needed here anymore. 

Eliot’s hands twitched toward the ghost of the bottle he had once kept in his dressing room, the one that he had instructed Jean-Luc to remove. He had sworn an oath to himself, after that dark arrival in Paris, and Todd’s departure, that he would never again drink alone. Julia was only a few rooms away, her company hardly barred to him, but her triumph had only honed the sharp edge of his loneliness. 

Eliot shook his head.  _ Selfish, like always _ , he scolded himself. 

“Sir?” 

Eliot’s spiral of self-involvement was interrupted by a knock at his door. 

With a creak of unoiled hinges, Jean-Luc poked his head into the dressing room. “Sir,” he said. “You have a visitor who would speak with you. He says he’s a great patron of yours.” 

Eliot sighed. 

“Give them my gratitude, and apologies, but I’m too tired after the performance–” 

It was not the usher who spoke next, but a deep, warm voice with a light and aristocratic Russian accent. 

“Too tired, even to greet an old friend? My, perhaps I  _ am _ right to be worried.” 

Eliot sat straight up in his chair as though he had been struck by lightning, a smile coming to his lips at once. 

“ _ Idri _ .” 

Eliot’s dearest former lover leaned against the doorway to his dressing room, as handsome and stately as ever, a bouquet of pale pink roses in hand. Always the eccentric, the duke wore a white suit over a coffee colored waistcoat, a scarlet silk sash the only nod to the title of his birth. 

“Your Serene Highness,” Eliot said, remembering himself as he rose from his seat and bowed. “Forgive me. If I’d had any notion you were here tonight—”

“An intentional deception on my part, Herr Waugh, don’t worry.” Idri stepped into the room as though it were his sovereign territory, a considerate eye cast over Eliot’s frame as he handed him the bouquet. Eliot pressed the blossoms to his nose, enjoying the delicate perfume. 

“I’m here on business,” Idri continued. “Some concerning rumors regarding your person have reached my ear since I arrived in town this week, my dear. I needed to see the proof for myself, and I didn’t wish for you to be forewarned.” 

With a wave of his hand Idri sent the usher from the room, and then they were alone. Eliot hesitated, but Idri closed the door to the dressing room and opened his arms. It was with stunning relief that Eliot embraced his old friend. 

“Idri,” he breathed. “Idri, it’s so  _ wonderful _ to see you again.” 

He felt Idri’s smile, and then a kiss against the curve of his cheek. “The feeling is mutual,  _ zhavoronok _ . It has been too long since I’ve heard your lovely music. When your ballade reached its climax I thought that the hall would erupt from the beauty of it all. My heart soared.” 

Eliot shook his head against the Duke’s shoulder. “It’s only a new thing, still rife with errors. But I welcome praise from your lips, always.”

Idri laughed, stroking Eliot’s back. “I have never known you to be unsure of your music.”

Eliot pulled back, looking at his shoes. “Yes, well. Age softens a man’s pride.” He swallowed, hands fidgeting. “If I had known you would be here I would have asked for your requests.” 

Idri stilled him with a hand to his jaw, gently drawing him up to meet his eyes. His brown gaze was soft, and Eliot had all he could do to not crumble under the weight of such honest compassion.

“You’re so pale.” Idri asked, stroking his thumb under Eliot’s eye where dark circles had taken up residence. “Tell me. What’s going on, Eliot?”

“And here I thought I was looking better,” Eliot said, a weak attempt at humor which only made Idri’s brow furrow. “Do I look as bad as all that?” 

“You look as lovely as you ever have,” Idri assured him, a kindness Eliot hardly deserved, “But when you wrote me last Autumn your words were flushed with joy and I knew you must be in love, but now here I find you alone. What has happened? And where is your darling wife?”

“I—” Idri’s presence was like a talisman, transforming Eliot into the vulnerable man he had once been. Twenty-five and newly married, his heart still raw and shrouded after the foolishness of his youth. 

“Margo is home in Vienna,” Eliot confessed. “I forbid her from coming. And…” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “And my lover, too. My only solace in this world, and Idri I am so fearful that I’ve made them both hate me, but I saw no other path. My hands have been so tied, my music so full of hate and fear...” 

“Alright.” Idri rested his hands on Eliot’s shoulders, the pressure firm and welcome. Eliot had always found it odd that he was actually slightly taller than his former lover. Idri was so grounded and steady, like the foundations of a particularly elegant manor. Eliot always felt as though he were twisting in the wind, about to fly apart at the sign of any strong emotion. He had once been able to rely on Margo for his stability, but now...

“Things are worse than I feared,” Idri continued. “But I’m here now, my dear. You shall come back to my apartments tonight, and I shall look after you.” 

Such a thing should not have brought Eliot to the verge of tears, yet it was with complete and utter relief that Eliot allowed Idri to whisk him away to his townhouse near the Russian embassy. It was a sensual hour of drink—Eliot was not alone, and thus allowed himself to imbibe—and comfort before he found himself lounging in Idri’s bed stripped down to his shirtsleeves, finally sharing the whole sordid tale of his cowardice. Idri held him as he spoke, one arm slung around Eliot’s shoulders and in the other his favored ivory pipe. 

“And I thought—Margo called me a fool, but it seemed like wisdom at the time—that surely, if we could part amicably, as you and I had,” Eliot explained, his head pillowed on Idri’s chest. It was a quasi-platonic embrace. He had simply gone so  _ long _ without any tender touch, that even the clasp of friendship seemed a relief to his starved heart. “Then at least some warmth between us could be forever preserved, and his heart would never be poisoned against me.”

Eliot lifted his cigarette to his lips with shaking fingers. Even with Julia he hadn’t been so blunt. 

“So convinced, I wound my way across Europe, only dear Todd preventing me from drinking myself into the grave, and with the blessed exception of a few new friends I am as you found me,” Eliot concluded. 

Idri sighed. 

“Your wife is right,” he said after some thought. “You are a fool.”

He laughed at Eliot’s pout, a deep, warm sound, before he continued. 

“I’ve but one question for you,” Idri asked. “ _ Did _ you part amicably with your lover, as we did in Berlin?”

Eliot saw Quentin sitting on the sofa in the study, his head in his hands and Julia’s letter hanging from his fingertips. He heard the strain in his voice as he yelled, such a state unnatural to his soft-spoken nature, his hurt manifesting in the way his fists clenched at his sides, how he had grabbed Eliot’s arm for one last plea before Margo had found them. And then… when darkness had fallen over the house and Quentin had come to him, climbing onto his lap for one final, desperate coupling that held not a fraction of the tenderness that it should have possessed. 

He looked up to see Idri watching him curiously, as if Eliot’s pointed silence was answer enough. 

“Ours was never a relationship of risk, Eliot,” he said gently. “Risks of the heart, I mean. Not to say that I wasn’t terribly fond of you. I still am.” 

Eliot hummed, his cigarette dangling from his fingers. “I had forgotten how little use you had for the flourishes of romance, dear.” He took a long drag. “But you know the feeling is mutual.” 

Idri surveyed him thoughtfully. 

“It was mutual,” he agreed, “But no more.” 

Eliot frowned. “My lord—”

Idri rolled onto his side, and cupped the back of Eliot’s neck in a firm hand. He drew him close, until he could feel the warm press of Idri’s body all along his own. 

“I could kiss you, now,” Idri murmured into the scant inches between their lips, “Have you. And it would be no danger to me. It would be a pleasure, in fact. An indulgence I have missed often since we parted.” 

Idri squeezed the back of his neck, and all at once Eliot was twenty-five again, desperate for tenderness and eager to submit. Idri had been a courtly lover, gentle and coaxing, distant but protective. It had been a gift, the space Idri had provided for Eliot to remember the winsome flirtations and soft exhalations of his youth in safety. For a few weeks Eliot needed only be Margo’s husband, and Idri’s  _ zhavoronok _ , his songbird. He had not been so vulnerable with a man again until he allowed Quentin the use of his thighs in Leipzig. Until he had tried to give himself to Quentin fully on the ill-fated night of the opera. Even now, the promise of such a comfort brought out the same weakness in him.

His eyes had fluttered shut when he heard Idri sigh, and the hand at his nape went slack. Eliot felt the press of lips to his brow, and his eyes burned.

“But an infidelity so cruel would only break your heart, and the hearts of those you left in Vienna,” Idri said, brushing the curls back from Eliot’s brow. “I could never do such a thing to you, my friend.”

He was right. Of  _ course  _ he was right and the pain that lanced through Eliot’s chest at even the thought of his momentary weakness led him to speak foolishly again. “How did you survive this, Idri? The loss. I swear it’s as though my heart itself is missing from my chest.” 

There was a pause, and Eliot looked up to see Idri considering him. 

“I forget how young you are,” he said, fatherly patience coloring his words. “Nevertheless, I pray, Eliot, that you did not just compare your current situation to the premature death of the mother of my children. Your wife is cross with you, but still living, as I recall.” 

Eliot blanched, and sat up with his weight rested on one hand. “Your Highness, forgive me. I hardly thought—” 

Idri waved away his apology. “It’s already done. But you speak of your Quentin as if he were dead. In the north we would say you were summoning an ill wind.” 

“Then you are surely wise in these matters where I’m not,” Eliot continued. “For I can see no path where he won’t be taken from me.” 

Idri hummed, as if Eliot’s motives were finally made clear. 

“You fear the future.”

“Of course I do,” Eliot said, a desperate laugh bubbling up from his chest. “I fear losing him–by any means, and each way is more terrible than the next. By circumstance, by fear—which I could hardly blame him for—god forbid by the law itself. We have no protections. How could I stomach putting him—and Margo, by mere association, in that kind of danger?”

“You worry enough over this to destroy your own happiness, yet for years I’m sure you have enjoyed less wholesome encounters, as men like us do.” Idri said, returning to his pipe. “Those certainly carried their own danger.” 

“You know as well as I that a permanent connection such as this is the greatest risk of all,” Eliot said. “It’s the cruelty of the world against our natures, that the lust one man might feel for another is less of a threat than love. The word of a tailor’s apprentice or a waiter is nothing against my reputation, and certainly not against Margo’s, but Quentin has lived in my  _ home _ for nearly a year.” 

“That is a long time. And you claim he is your student?” 

Eliot nodded, leaning over to stub out his cigarette in the crystal tray Idri had provided. “The excuse was growing thin already before I left. We are too alike in age, even with my greater fame. We grew careless, attending parties together without Margo as if we could move through society like a pair, as if I were his–” 

Eliot stopped, the word  _ husband  _ too much to speak into existence. “It doesn’t matter, I only mean that we were reckless. If Margo and I had children… well, circumstances might be different.”

He shook his head as if to chase the thought away. That was not God’s will for him. He rolled onto his back, the down pillows under his head doing little to comfort him. 

“As things are,” he continued. “If Quentin were to remain with us it would either be the source of great suspicion, or it would be assumed—by which I mean we would have to encourage the rumour—that he was some kind of invalid. My love is hardly worth that.”

He shuddered to think that anyone would regard Quentin as anything less than an artist, as anything less than a  _ genius  _ and example to all men— Eliot couldn’t bear it. 

Quentin would, for him, but why should he? Why shouldn’t he have a  _ real  _ life?

“That sounds like a conversation to have with your lover, and not me. How could you know what he wants if you have decided for him already?” Idri said after a pause. Then: “I admit I’ve never brought a companion to my estate on any permanent basis. If I did the scandal would be much greater among my children than any malevolent outside forces.” 

“The security of your situation is quite different than my own,” Eliot said, months of frustrated searching for solutions bitter on his tongue. 

Idri was practically a brother to the Russian Tsar, and his oldest son just married and full of promise to continue the ancient family line. He was a patriarch in nearly every sense, and untouchable. If he should have a slim and fey male lover at his private country estate, who would deny him? 

Idri hummed. “Perhaps you are right,” he agreed amicably. “But, then who are you? Only the most famous musical name in Europe. A man born from the rigorous Hungarian countryside who plays piano with the deft of a god. Not to mention that they sell the story of your marriage alongside your music in St. Petersburg, as though it were a novel.”

“They would read the story of my ruin just as eagerly.”

Idri laughed, and shook his head. “For all the dreams of grand romance I know you carry in your heart,  _ zhavoronok _ , you are so fearful of them coming true. You only speak of how such an affair can  _ fail,  _ but you have spoken not of how it could  _ succeed,  _ and prosper. There is a way, there must be. I don’t believe that men like us have lived these thousands of years of history in only agony.” 

Eliot sighed deeply. They all scolded him, as if it were so  _ easy.  _

“I’m not saying you aren’t right to be afraid,” Idri said, perceptive as ever. “But I will tell you this: I've enjoyed all of my affairs, ours more than any, but if my wife were still on this earth there is nothing that could keep me from her side. That you might have two such loves and yet you remain here, looking at me as though a part of you still hopes I might put you on your back...my dear, it is an utter mystery."

Eliot looked down, a blush warming his cheeks. “Would you deny me even the warmth of a fond memory in your company?” 

“There are better memories in which you might seek comfort,” Idri advised. “Not to mention wisdom.” 

Eliot closed his eyes. The softness of the bedding beneath him eased the aches of his performance and called him to the rest that had eluded him since he last slept in Quentin’s arms. 

“When I met you in Berlin, you were lit up, Eliot,” Idri said, his voice fond. “You and your lady wife, you had just pulled off your great trick, and there was nothing in the world you couldn’t do together. It was a lovely thing to behold.”

Eliot sighed, this time with a fond sense of longing. He missed Margo like an ache, and even more he missed that first year of possibility, before Eliot’s great failure had been revealed. 

“I ask too much of her,” he said, throat tight again. 

“You ask too little.” Idri’s disagreement surprised him. “I remember her mind. A brilliant thing looking at society like a puzzle to be teased out and solved. You waste her imagination, when you should  _ trust  _ her.” 

Eliot shook his head. 

“I’ve been selfish. With Margo, and with Quentin. There hasn’t been a moment, since I first touched him—“ Eliot let his eyes fall closed against the tears that threatened to well up. “Since I first played his music, that I have not been purely and desperately in love.” 

“It is the furthest thing from selfish to love someone.”

“I can offer nothing in return,” Eliot insisted. “I have given Margo little enough, and now Quentin—” 

“If this is how you have set your mind, then act selfishly,” Idri said. “What would you ask of your Quentin, if you could have anything? If there were no dream that could be barred to you?” 

Anything? Eliot trembled, and a single tear escaped to trail down his cheek. 

“Quentin told me of his dream, and I could hardly have summoned a better one,” he said. “We were as man and wife, and he wanted—you should have heard him—he wanted to give me  _ children— _ “

Another tear escaped, and Eliot felt as though his heart were being carved out of him. What fantasy could possibly be sweeter and yet more cruel than that of a son with Quentin’s eyes? Idri soothed him, his touch a mild balm to Eliot’s agony. 

“What is  _ your  _ wish,  _ zhavoronok _ ?” 

“I saw, once—it was a dream,” Eliot confessed. “The most beautiful dream. Quentin waited for me, and with him Margo—never without her—they waited for me at an altar.” 

With his eyes closed Eliot could still see Margo in her wedding gown, pink and cream and everything beautiful. His beautiful Bambi. And Quentin...he was glowing. Flushed and handsome and overjoyed, because they were to be men and wife.

“The church was empty, not even a priest,” Eliot said. “But I took their hands and knew that in the eyes of God they were mine. That we would forever be one soul in three and I would never be alone again.”

“A lovely dream,” Idri said, when Eliot could speak no more. “Why have you closed your heart to it?” 

Eliot exhaled, shaky. He was so  _ tired _ . “Because it is impossible.” 

Idri sighed. 

“You’ve exhausted yourself,” he said, in answer to Eliot’s hopelessness. “And you’re too thin. Sleep now, and in the morning, a Russian breakfast. You’ll see reason after my chef’s  _ syrniki _ .” 

“Will you stay?” Eliot felt ridiculous, like a child, but Idri’s touch to his face held only patience and tenderness. 

“I hadn’t planned on leaving you, darling.” Idri smoothed the curls back from Eliot’s brow, and it only drew him closer to slumber.

“Rest now, my  _ zhavoronok _ . All will be well, I can feel it.” 

It spoke truth to Idri’s assessment of his health that Eliot did fall asleep, still in his shirtsleeves and trousers, right there on top of the coverlet in his former lover’s bed. The last thing he could recall before morning was a plush blanket covering him, and Idri’s low voice. He sang to Eliot, the quiet half hum of a Russian lullaby, until finally Eliot knew true rest. 

When Eliot awoke with the rising sun, Idri was already up and dressed, opening the door for a servant who brought them a breakfast tray stacked with every Russian delicacy. The Russians did not eat their breakfasts so sweet as the French, which Eliot was grateful for. Under Idri’s watchful eye Eliot filled his belly with syniki and sour cream, and black bread with butter and sausage that reminded him painfully of home. Idri poured them both strong black tea from a glittering enamel samovar, and they spoke of lighter topics for a while. Idri was in truth a great patron of the arts, it was not merely an excuse for their connection, and Eliot was pleased to learn that Idri had been more involved in his adventures in Paris than he had realized. 

“So you are Fraulein Wicker’s mysterious new patron,” he said, grinning. “That is wonderful news. She’s a most esteemed colleague. You won’t regret having her in residence at your estate.” 

“I have every confidence,” Idri agreed. “I’m acting out of selfishness, honestly. While on my travels I missed her Imperial tour, and the Tsarina has not let me forget it.”

“Though,” he continued. “One does hear things. I thought the fraulein might be glad for the opportunity of a more private retreat, perhaps to develop some more independent repertoire. Herr Reynard was less than thrilled to learn he wasn’t invited, but then my station does come with some benefits.” 

Eliot nodded, happy for Julia. “He would be a fool to speak against you in public,” he agreed. “How delightful.”

“Perhaps without her father Fraulein Wicker will find romance in St. Petersburg,” Idri said, refreshing his cup from the samovar. 

“Or perhaps not,” Eliot said, giving Idri a meaningful look over his own cup. It was not for him to say, but a helpful hint could only make Julia’s stay in Russia more enjoyable. “Julia has become a very dear friend. We have  _ much _ in common.” 

Idri raised his eyebrows, but a smile played at his lips. “Then perhaps not,” he agreed. “You might assure Fraulein Wicker that she will be among more friends in Russia, and no such undesired suitors will trouble her.” 

That was Idri’s blessing to share their past. “I’ll be certain to.” 

After Eliot had been fed enough to alleviate Idri’s worries for his health (“Really, this is meal enough for three men!” “And you look as though you haven’t eaten anything warm in three  _ months _ , darling.”) he dressed, submitting to Idri’s doting assistance. A servant had pressed his jacket and waistcoat, so at least Eliot did not look so disheveled as he might in last night’s clothes. 

Eliot thought that Idri looked troubled as he helped Eliot to settle his creased collar, his usually smooth brow furrowed with thought. 

“Of course,” Idri assured him. “I’m merely thinking on your tale from last night, and my involvement.” 

“Involvement?” Eliot repeated, concerned. “Idri, your presence has been a blessing in the darkest of times.” 

“I’m glad to hear it,” Idri assured him. “But I’m not referring to our reunion here in Paris.”

The duke sighed as he settled Eliot’s cravat around his neck.

“You must know, that I would have never been free to give you the love that you deserved,” Idri said to him as he looped the folds of tie into a fashionable knot. “I had—and have still—too many duties to my emperor. To my children. To my late wife’s memory. But Eliot...”

Idri smoothed the material of Eliot’s necktie and touched him under the chin.

“It was no shortcoming of yours that kept me from giving you my whole heart in Berlin,” he promised, his dark eyes serious. “No excess of affection could have ever led me to turn away from you. I pray that such a notion has never crossed your mind.”

Eliot swallowed, an ache throbbing behind his breast as though Idri had just plucked a thorn free from his heart. Then he managed a smile for his former lover.

“Never, my friend,” he promised, a half-lie that he knew Idri would forgive. “Our affair will live on only as one of my dearest memories.”

“And mine,” Idri agreed. “I was lucky to enjoy your intimate company, darling. For however brief a time.” 

Idri kissed him then, on the mouth, but Eliot tasted no desire behind it, only a fond farewell. 

He escorted him to the door personally, as if Eliot were an honored guest. They embraced as friends, and Eliot’s heart constricted as he realized he knew not when he would see him again. 

The early morning light followed his feet as he made his way through the city. His mind was strangely quiet, the deluge of thoughts and worries that had been his most constant companion slumbering quietly in the twilight of his psyche, allowing him to enjoy the way the sun dappled gaily over the many windows he passed on his way, how the city made its own sweet music in the calls of its merchants and the laughter of its children. 

He had a few errands to do, a rehearsal to attend at the theater and a business meeting with a French publisher. He finished them all with little event, and took his supper at a cafe. The sun was setting by the time he found his feet carrying him back to his apartment. 

The now familiar rooms seemed less empty as he sat down at the desk, pulling out a clean sheet of paper and a fresh pot of ink, a new resolve in his heart. 

_ Dear Quentin,  _ he started at the top. 

He paused, pen hovering over the blank page. It was only a letter. He would start with one, and little by little, perhaps he could repair that which he had broken. Perhaps together, they could form a solution that was less fantastical than the one Eliot had dreamt up in his agony. He still another month left in Paris, there was yet time for him to make things right. 

Ink dripped from the nib, staining the paper. It was only a letter, he repeated to himself. 

A soft knock came at the door. 

He started, dropping the pen into the pot and standing. He shoved his arms back through the sleeves of his jacket and tucked his overlong hair behind his ears. It was still a frightful mess after sleeping in Idri’s excess of pillows, and no amount of fussing throughout the day had managed to tame it. Clearing his throat, he opened the door. 

The kindly, middle-aged landlord who ran the apartment house stood in the threshold. 

“Good morning, Herr Waugh,” he started, smiling warmly. “I’m sorry to disturb you so late.”

Eliot waved away the apology. “No matter. What can I do for you?”

He rummaged in his pockets and produced a thin letter, folded and sealed with a familiar stamp that made Eliot’s eyes widen. 

“This just came for you, and I saw you arrive so I thought I would deliver it personally.”

He held the letter out for Eliot to take, and Eliot moved slowly, knowing he looked foolish. But there in front of him was Margo’s seal pressed into the wax. He took it gently between two fingers, turning it over to see his wife’s handwriting on the other side. 

“Thank you,” Eliot said, swallowing thickly. “I appreciate the thought.”

The landlord nodded with a smile and bid him good night, closing the door with a click. 

Eliot’s heart pounded. The letter opener. He rummaged around his desk for it, knocking over a pot of ink that fell to the ground with a crash. It splattered on his shoes, but he continued to look frantically, scattering papers and old programs and letters of less important note than the one in his hand from his  _ wife.  _

What if it brought ill tidings? Was Quentin ill? Had a fever swept through Vienna as it had in London upon his arrival? Margo hadn’t written him at all since his departure, surely only a matter of the gravest nature would drive her to contact him. Surely her anger with him hadn’t cooled. 

He surrendered, counting the letter opener as a loss. He clawed at the seal with his bare fingers, biting his own tongue in his concentration. Green wax pressed under his fingernails and he tore a corner of the paper. 

Oh, but what if it was good news, what if, what if— 

The seal came free. Two lines of small and proper handwriting were the only thing that marred the cream colored expanse of the page. 

He read the message once, twice, three times. It took only but a few seconds to read. His heart beat wildly against his ribs. It couldn’t be–his love, his  _ loves–  _

“Oh Bambi,” he whispered, running his fingers over the most beautiful words that had ever been set to paper. “How I’ve missed you.”

Once sure that he wasn’t simply imagining the contents of the letter–not hallucinating the most perfect and succinct phrases laid out by his own dear wife–he folded the letter and stowed it in his inside jacket pocket. So long as Eliot held breath in his body no force on heaven or earth would part him from it. His mind was clear: full of Julia’s resolve and Idri’s kind advice and  _ Margo,  _ the woman he had vowed to cherish above all others. 

His trunk was easily packed in a few minutes time, and his personal effects gathered from all corners of the cold apartment. He sent for Mueller, his groom, to let him know to prepare the carriage and horses for a long journey:

“First light tomorrow, I wish to return home. Find us the quickest path to Vienna.”

Too jittery to sleep right away, he sat at his desk and composed a letter to Julia. He could only hope that she would not hold this one final indiscretion against him. Once done, he blew out the candle, surrendering to his last night in Paris.

Tomorrow would come soon enough. If he closed his eyes tight enough he could see the end of what would be a long and arduous journey back to Vienna, to the open arms of his loves ready to receive him. 

_ Julia, _

_ You shall call me a layabout and a cad, but I’m afraid I must leave our final concerts in your capable hands. Believe me when I say nothing but the most blessed of news could possibly lead me to act as rashly as I do now. By the time you receive this note I shall already be on the road, bound for Vienna with all possible haste.  _

_ My wife has called me home, and all the fearsome hounds of hell could not keep me from obeying her summons. I hope someday to tell you of its contents, for I know that even though I at present face the unknown, there may yet be something glorious waiting in my future. I wish the same for you, in all of your endeavors. _

_ Led by that strange muse known as Love, and her frail sister Hope, I leave you.  _

_ Your friend,  
_ _ Eliot Waugh _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes about the music:
> 
> Julia premieres a work by Quentin in this chapter that is truly Robert Schumann's "Carnaval," op. 9. This is one of my absolute /favorite/ works by dear Robert, because its the epitome of his style. It's meant to depict different characters at a masked ball, much like his "Papillons" but more mature and polished. Several historical figures are referenced in it, including the composer Frederich Chopin, who Schumann imitates in a parody style. Reportedly, Chopin never forgave Schumann for the reference, no matter how lovingly it was done. There's also a movement named "Chiarina" which is actually a reference to his love, Clara Wieck (later Clara Schumann).
> 
> Eliot plays a "Ballade" originally by Franz Liszt also in this chapter. Ballades are like little adventures on the piano, and if you didn't listen to the recording while reading this chapter, I suggest getting a good pair of headphones and closing your eyes to listen to the whole thing. Let yourself be transported by the sublime. 
> 
> Some historical notes: 
> 
> Julia Wicker in this story is based on the real life figure, Clara Schumann (Née Wieck). Clara was a child prodigy, driven intensely by her father. He was abusive and controlling even by 19th century standards, making her wear juvenile outfits and hairstyles to continue reaping the benefits of being a child prodigy well into adulthood. But he did not stop Clara from becoming the singular best pianist of the century. After marrying Schumann, she continued to tour while raising children, the first woman recorded to ever perform while pregnant. After Schumann's very young death, she worked tirelessly to secure her husband's legacy and create a more "serious" piano concert. Contrary to popular belief, it was Clara Schumann, not Franz Liszt, that popularized the now common practice of pianists memorizing their entire recitals. She wore all black and performed entire works from start to finish, training audiences to expect long, thoughtful works from piano concerts instead of short and flashy works empty of expression. Eliot and Julia's initial feud in the fic is a nod to Clara and Franz Liszt's real life tension, as they were rivals on the virtuoso stage. 
> 
> Thank you again for reading, we are really in the homestretch now! As always, we treasure each and every comment and kudos.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, everyone. The long time coming finale to Act 3 of Our Sublime Refrain. This is the end of the main plot. Look forward to our long, soft, tender, Romantic epilogue, coming soon! This has been a wonderful journey for destielpasta and myself, to develop these characters and bring their story to a (hopefully) satisfying conclusion. We hope you'll tell us what you think in the comments! We treasure all of your responses.

_August, 1837_

_Vienna, Austria_

The carriage ran over a particularly rough bump, jostling Eliot in his seat. He didn’t care, his eyes scanning Margo’s letter again and again in the waning afternoon sunlight. 

_Eliot,  
_ _Quentin will father our children. His love will make us a family, if you will allow it. Come home to us and see the truth._

_Your wife,  
_ _Margo_

He had carried the letter close to his heart ever since departing Paris, the thin slip of paper more dear to him than his own life. 

Could it mean what he hoped? 

He knew one thing for sure, as the Austrian countryside passed him by and his last day of travel turned to dusk. He was _loved._ Wanted. Needed. So much so that the two people he held in the highest regard had come together in his absence, to formulate a solution more elegant than any classic drama. He could neither give Margo children nor Quentin a normal life, but all three of them together…

He closed his eyes, barely able to contain his anticipation.

It had not been reason driving his actions, nor practicality, all those months ago when he had left Quentin standing alone in the doorway. It had been _love._ Love had driven him away from Vienna, away from the arms of his two beloveds. But love would bring him home. He held tight to Margo’s letter as proof, but the doubter in him had to see it to believe it. 

“Just a few miles ahead, sir!” Mueller called from his seat up front. “Should be in the city before nightfall!”

Eliot rapped his knuckles on the ceiling of the carriage to show he had heard. Mueller was a good driver, and had made great haste to get them back to Vienna. However, with rain and bad roads their travel had almost amounted to a month, finding refuge in shabby roadside Inns and the mansions of friendly aristocrats. He hadn’t been uncomfortable, but with every passing day Eliot’s nerves fluctuated like a river’s water line in the Spring. 

Would Margo’s words prove true? More importantly, could they ever forgive him? 

They arrived in Vienna close to evening, the sun low and warm in the sky. Eliot’s heart jumped when the shining spires of the cathedral breached the horizon. His city, his home– but his elation at seeing the familiar layout of the main streets turned to panicked resolve as Mueller turned the corner onto the most familiar street of all. 

Quentin’s book of poetry rested in his breast pocket, next to Margo’s letter. He braced a hand against it, drawing strength from his two great loves. He would need all his resolve for what was to come. 

The street was quiet as he climbed down from the carriage, setting his hat atop his head. 

Mueller drove away to stable the horses, leaving Eliot standing alone on the front walkway. The townhouse looked the same as always, the most regal residence outside of the Hofburg palace, in his opinion. It had cost him a small fortune, but he hadn’t balked at the price, still flying high from his successful marriage and equally successful first European tour. 

“Eliot,” Margo’s voice had been uncharacteristically breathless the first time she had seen it. “It’s perfect– perfect for us.”

Eliot had stood tall, proud as a peacock with his new wife’s arm warm around his. 

“I’m glad you think so,” he said, smiling slyly. “Would you be angry with me if I told you that I already purchased it?”

Margo’s face lit up, ecstatic, before crinkling into an adorably angry grimace. 

“You’re lucky I love it, Eliot Waugh!” She hit him playfully with her free hand. “But you shan’t ever make such a decision without me ever again. We are _partners.”_

Eliot had smiled, having thoroughly not learned his lesson. 

“I am entitled to shower you with gifts. Won’t you be happy to have a household of our own? Todd has already found a most excellent cook, he tells me.” He cleared his throat and squeezed her hand. “And there are plenty of extra bedrooms, for what the future brings.”

Margo’s eyes sparkled, with both mischief and fondness. His heart was near to bursting. 

“All on our own terms then?”

Eliot nodded, throat thick. 

“There’s only one thing left to do.”

Margo had screamed her laughter when he had picked her up bridal style and carried her across the threshold, kissing her in the doorway for all of the city to see. His _wife._

Nearly four years later, he stood alone on the neatly paved walkway. Eliot Waugh: stone mason’s son, virtuoso pianist, and husband to Lady Margo Hanson. And– he swallowed around the thought– lover to the most wonderful man. 

He had been so many things, but now he would find his destiny. 

Putting one foot in front of the other, he began to walk towards the door. 

Inside, someone played the piano. Quentin, obviously. Eliot recognized the patterns of his practice immediately: Starting, pausing, experimenting, repeat. He was composing, working, and Eliot’s heart jumped in his chest. How many times had he walked this same path, returning home from court, walking slowly so to better hear Quentin’s music before he disturbed him? 

The front door was unlocked, as they kept it during the day, and instead of knocking he recklessly turned the knob and let himself in. The music flooded through the empty doorway, the thick texture of it wafting onto Eliot’s face like a strong wind. The hallway was empty, the servants obviously otherwise occupied probably with preparing dinner and not watching the door for unsuspected homecomings.

He set off for the study, towards the music. 

The doorway was ajar. He pushed it inward, and there was Quentin. Eliot’s breath caught in his throat. He was working at the piano, his back turned. The piece in progress was vigorous, the chords big and booming. Quentin used his entire body to wrend the sound from the instrument, joy and elation and passion all at once. _Good, honest, German music,_ Eliot thought to himself, reverent as he took in the scene. Dust motes swirled around in the morning sunlight. He stayed still as statue, not wanting to disturb him. 

But as this was a composer’s work hour and not a performance in the royal theater, Quentin did stop after a few moments, picking up his pen to mark something in the messy score sitting on the stand. Satisfied with his choice, he set the pen upon the stand began to play again, this time a lyrical section in the relative minor. A safe choice, to be sure, but Quentin had a way of making these conventions his own. 

Eliot stepped forward, approaching him slowly, not wanting to startle him. Quentin stopped, his hands hovering over the keys. Eliot stood close enough to touch, and see the fine tremble in Quentin’s fingers. God in heaven, Eliot had missed him. He laid a hand on his shoulder, and closed his eyes as Quentin gasped. His lover clasped his hand at once, running his thumb over the shape of Eliot’s knuckles as though he would know him just from their geography.

“Eliot?” Quentin asked, squeezing his hand. “Am I dreaming, or have you come home to us?” 

Eliot licked his lips, and found his voice. “I’m here.” 

The piano bench scraped loudly against the wood floors as Quentin shoved it away and rose to pull Eliot into an urgent embrace. 

And _oh,_ had it truly been this long since Eliot had held him? Quentin tucked his head under Eliot’s chin, his arms thrown around his shoulders. He fit perfectly, just as he had in Eliot’s dreams. 

_“Darling,”_ Eliot said against his shoulder, his words entreating. For what, he couldn’t say. “My love–”

Quentin clung to him, and Eliot palmed the small of his back, tucking a finger under his chin to draw his lips up for a desperate kiss. Quentin parted his lips with a sigh, fingers threading through the hair at the base of Eliot’s neck. He turned his head to deepen the kiss, and felt just the slightest wetness brush his cheek. 

He pulled away, brushing his thumb over where the tear had fallen. Quentin nuzzled his face, holding tight to the lapels of Eliot’s traveling jacket. 

“You need a shave,” Quentin said, a smile in his voice as he pressed a kiss to his jaw. 

Eliot laughed, kissing his temple. 

“You waited for me. I was a fool— I scarcely can believe you’re here,” he said, stepping back slightly to see the deep brown of Quentin’s eyes. “But then, of course you are. You told me you would be.”

“I would have waited an eon if it meant—“ Quentin stood on his toes, kissing his lips hard and then pulling back with a hand on Eliot’s heart, the other on Eliot’s waist. “Tell me,” he said. _Pleaded_. “Tell me you received Margo’s letter. Tell me we can–”

Eliot missed him _so badly_. 

“We can be a family,” he whispered. 

Quentin smiled, rapturous and beautiful. His strong broad hands traced the shape of Eliot’s ribs, holding him fast. 

“Are you certain, darling?” Eliot could not contain the question that had haunted him despite the confidence of Margo’s written word. “It’s so much— _too_ much to ask of you.” 

“It is a _gift_.” Quentin’s insistence was fierce. 

“Eliot,” he continued, as if to taste the shape of the name in his mouth. “Eliot, I want to give you children.”

Desire shuddered through Eliot’s frame. He had dreamed, so many nights since he’d received Margo’s letter, but to hear it from Quentin’s lips... His own, his _love—_

“You will,” he promised, pressing his lips to Quentin’s temple, breathing him in. He whispered: “Your children, Q. Your children bearing my name. Think of it.” 

“They will be _our_ children,” Quentin said, pushing another kiss under Eliot’s jaw. Then he straightened, eyes sparkling, as he continued. “Of course they will bear their father’s name.”

Eliot pressed their brows together, his throat tight. “And what of their mother?” 

Quentin’s brow furrowed. “Our lady?” he asked. “She’ll be home soon. There was some kind of luncheon—” 

Eliot shook his head. “No, I mean you and Margo. Your joining. I would never ask…” 

He thought over his words carefully. “It can’t be for my sake,” he said after a moment’s pause. “At least not mine alone. So if we are to pursue this dream, then Q, please tell me—” 

Quentin’s eyes alit with understanding, and the last of Eliot’s fears were laid to rest as he smiled beatifically. 

“Eliot, I love her.” He cupped Eliot’s jaw in his hand as he said again with absolute certainty: “I love her as I love you.” 

Eliot beamed. “Then we are all three of us equals in love.” 

Quentin nodded. “I can’t wait for Margo to come home.” 

As if through divine providence, it was then that the front door opened, a gust of wind blowing a draft through the hall and into the study. In the hallway, voices could be heard; Franz, greeting Margo and taking her shawl. He heard his wife’s soft reply, “Thank you, Franz. Is Herr Coldwater home?”

Eliot didn’t hear the answer as he and Quentin both sat up at once.

Margo appeared in the doorway of the study a moment later, looking both windswept and swept up by emotion alike. Eliot and Quentin leapt to their feet. 

“Margo–”

“So you’re back then. Fine.”

With that, she turned on her heel and strode away. Her footsteps were heavy as she climbed the stairs and slammed the door to her room. Eliot swallowed, true panic settling in his newly healed heart.

All of this was for naught if Margo didn’t forgive him.

Quentin squeezed his hand, bringing him back. 

“Go to her,” he said. “She’s missed you terribly.” 

Eliot kissed him once, then again on his knuckles. “I’ll send for you. After.” 

Quentin’s exhale was shaky. “Yes.” 

Eliot left him them, the warmth of Quentin’s hand still against his skin as he mounted the stairs. It gave him the courage he needed. 

When Eliot stepped into her rooms Margo already had her gown off, the pinstripe blue calico strewn over her vanity bench. 

“I’m about to ring for Fen,” Margo declared, in her petticoats. She was bent down awkwardly, struggling with the ties of her shoes around the volume of her underthings. “I can’t possibly have this conversation in stays.” 

Eliot slipped his coat from his shoulders and left it over the back of a chair.

“Don’t ring for Fen.” 

In only his shirtsleeves he knelt at his wife’s feet, stilling her hands over the knotted laces, then taking their place. He undid the ties, and helped Margo slip the heels from her feet. He set the slippers aside before he looked up. Margo was flushed, still half angry even though she was the one to summon him home. 

God, he had missed her so much. 

Eliot brushed his thumb over the delicate floral clocks that adorned the ankle of her stocking. 

“My love, will you indulge me?”

Half a smile flitted across her lips and vanished just as quickly. She untied her petticoats, letting them fall to the ground. Turning, she offered him her back, the ties of her stays waiting for his hands at the base of her spine. 

“Go on, then.”

The silence was heavy as he set to work on the thin cords that gave Margo the fashionable shape her gowns required. Being privy to this one small intimacy set his heart racing with hope. 

“It’s been too long since I did this for you,” Eliot murmured, easing his fingers under the corset to pull the laces loose one loop at a time. 

Margo hummed. “Whose fault is that?” 

“My own,” he admitted readily. “Still, the first time was so dear to me. Do you remember?” 

Eliot could just see the corner of Margo’s mouth quirk up in a smile. 

“Fen caught cold in Rome.” 

“Her misfortune was my benefit,” Eliot agreed. “I got to dress you all the way to Paris.” 

“And undress me,” Margo said, her voice soft. 

Eliot fit the palm of his hands to the curve of Margo’s waist, her stays loose now against his palms.

“Yes.” 

While he didn’t desire her carnally Eliot would hardly pretend that Margo wasn’t beautiful. She was beautiful to look at, and beautiful to touch, and Eliot savored the indulgence of kissing her bare shoulder. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, prodding at an old wound. “That I couldn’t give you the one thing you asked for in our marriage.” 

“Don’t apologize for that,” Margo said, voice sharp. “Many of our recent pains have been your doing. That was never one of them.”

Margo’s hand found his cheek as Eliot nuzzled into the curve of her throat. She pet her fingers over the stubble beginning to grow in with the setting sun. 

“It wasn’t our fate,” she said. “But I don’t regret it.” 

“Our honeymoon bed?” Eliot breathed in the sweet floral spice of Margo’s perfume. “Not a moment, darling.”

He helped her lift the loosened corset over her head, laying the ribbed garment over her vanity chair. Margo was left only in her shift and stockings. Eliot fit his hands to her waist again, her figure now soft and full under his grip. 

“My lovely bride,” he whispered, pressing one more kiss to the back of her neck before moving on. He plucked two key pins from Margo’s hair and her curls tumbled out of her careful updo and down her shoulders. Eliot tucked the pins into his waistcoat pocket as he removed the rest one by one, knowing she would be irritated if they were lost. 

Sitting her on the bed, he knelt before her and rolled her stockings carefully down her legs until her feet were bare above the wooden floor. Though his work was finished he didn’t rise from his knees. There was another task to be done, and this was where he wished to stay to complete it. 

He opened his mouth to beg for forgiveness, but Margo spoke first.

“So you’ve come back to us.”

Eliot nodded. 

“Why?”

Eliot wet his lips with his tongue. This was a test, but not in the way that he had tested Quentin—or Margo, for that matter—with his leaving. Margo was sharp, but not cruel. Not to Eliot.

“You asked me to come. Margo, your letter—”

“I asked you to stay from the beginning.” 

But of course. It wasn’t yet time for them to share that joy. 

“I know.”

“If I had desired a husband who would command me to languish at home,” Margo continued, voice low and firm. “To endure six _months_ of snide glances and whispers of infidelity, there are many other men I could have married.” 

Eliot closed his eyes and accepted those words as his penance. He rested his brow against his wife’s knee. He stroked his hands over the fine dark hair on her calves. Margo allowed him that comfort as he found the shape of the truth in his mouth. 

“I was so afraid.” he said. “Afraid enough of myself to run, and to act against our vows.” 

That had been all Margo had asked of him, hadn’t it? All that he had sworn to her in front of God. Not the fidelity of his body, or even his heart, but that of his soul. That they would be as one against the world. 

“Forgive me,” he pleaded, looking up into his wife’s beloved brown eyes. “I saw my desires—my love—as only poison to Quentin, and danger to you. I haven’t been fully honest, since long before our marriage, of the…” Eliot struggled with the words even now— “...the _mistreatment_ I allowed to shape my heart.”

Margo took his hand in hers. “I know.” 

“I knew it would mean carving away a part of myself, but I thought, if Quentin were free, then all I would have left of me would be that which was yours,” Eliot continued, throat tight. “I thought I could come home and be only devoted to your happiness. I would—Margo, my darling, you must know that I would _die_ for your happiness—“

Margo took Eliot’s face in her slim hands, and it stole any further words from his tongue. He was helpless but to close his eyes with shaky relief because he knew, now that he had known the lack, that while their passions were not of the same nature he had missed his wife’s touch as dearly as he had missed Quentin’s.

“You are a fool,” she said, with the frank tenderness that only Margo could offer, that only Eliot had ever been able to properly understand— “A fool, my darling, if you don’t know that what I need most for my happiness is for you to _live_.” 

“I’m sorry,” was all that Eliot could say, tucking the truth of Margo’s words into his heart. “I’m so sorry that I left you.” 

“Never again,” Margo commanded, and Eliot nodded before the words had even fully left her lips. 

“Never,” he agreed readily. “Bambi, every breath was agony without you. Both of you.” 

Margo pressed a kiss, her benediction, to his lips.

“I love you, Eliot Waugh,” she murmured, “I love exactly the man you are. The man I married.” 

Eliot covered Margo’s hands where they cupped his jaw. 

“Thank you.” 

Margo held him, as she always had, her two slim hands and her love the only thing keeping all his whirling pieces from flying apart. Eliot knelt at his wife’s feet, his gratitude overflowing.

After a moment Margo pressed a kiss to his brow. “Now,” she said. “We must discuss our marriage bed, and you are too formally dressed for such a topic.” 

So Eliot removed his shoes, and sat beside Margo on their feather bed.

“In three years of our marriage I’ve never been touched by another,” Margo said, picking at the knot of Eliot’s cravat. He tried to assist only to have his hands batted away.

“Why not?” he asked, for the first time. “I didn’t know how to ask, though I’ve always wondered. Did you...did I make you feel you weren’t free?”

She shrugged.

“It wasn’t that,” she said, however. “But I did have you, and your tender intimacies. I’m not a romantic. Our marriage was enough for me. A lover seemed like a burden more than anything else.”

Eliot pondered that as Margo slid the silk necktie clear of his throat and set it aside. 

“We’re different in that way, is all,” she continued.”I’ve never resented your affairs, but I’m not sure I ever understood them, either. In my eyes the risk seemed to undo all promise of pleasure.”

Margo pulled Eliot’s hands into her lap to set to work on his cufflinks. 

“In my life lovers have always been entitled,” she said, frowning. “As if I were a jewel to embellish their reputations. I dispensed with my virtue at a young age, this you know, but the men that shared my bed only sought conquest. Even those with no intention of romance or marriage proved onerous, as though they had some right to me beyond the time I gave to their mediocre lovemaking.” 

Eliot covered her hand in his. “You are the jewel of my heart,” he promised. “But no man could ever own you, Bambi.” 

She smiled, briefly. “I know,” she said. “Aside from love I married you for that very assurance. But even with our vows to protect me I found no comfort in the thought of another’s bed.” 

“Your own bed is very fine,” Eliot agreed. “Where did we have these linens ordered from again? Cairo?”

Margo slapped him on the wrist for his cheek, her lips pursed around a smile.

“Eliot, I’m trying to be _serious._ ” 

“I’m serious as the grave,” Eliot replied. “But you speak as though you’re nervous. Margo, I abandoned _two concerts_ in Paris to come home at your first summons. There is nothing you could possibly say now that I will greet with anything less than euphoria.” 

“Nothing?” 

Eliot pulled Margo’s hair over her shoulder, his throat bare and his sleeves loose. 

“Tell me,” he entreated. “Tell me Quentin has slept in this bed. Tell me that you’ve known one another.” 

“Yes...and no,” she revealed. “Quentin has touched me. I kissed him, and he held me.” 

“And was it not bliss?” He asked. 

Eliot pressed her hand. Margo nodded. 

His mind raced with questions. Where had this occurred? When? And how? Had it been evening, with the soft light of the gas lamp warm on their faces? Or in the coolness of the morning, the sunlight streaming through the window? Had Quentin been the first to lean in, or had he waited, nay– _asked–_ for the honor of her kiss? How many had they stolen since Margo had written her letter, bright and breathless as new lovers were? Eliot could only marvel at the thought of Quentin’s hands spanned around Margo’s waist, of her lips pressed to his beautiful face. 

“I finally understand what you have been looking for all this time,” she continued. “I wanted him to have me, body and soul, and I wanted to have him in return. I still do.” 

“And you care for him?” Eliot asked, as he had Quentin some minutes before. “Enough to...Margo, enough to carry his children? What you suggest is no mere affair or tryst.” 

Margo looked down at their joined hands, laughing softly, an almost giddy sound.

“I laugh in disbelief with myself, because I do care for him.” She looked up to meet his gaze. “He creates music with such passion–but is only kind in his regard to others. He spent quiet days with me, unsure how to comport himself in company, but then he took my hand and waltzed with me in front of high society. He calls me…he calls me by my name, and each time I feel as though it is a touch to my heart. And when he speaks of my husband, of the love he is capable of, how could I not fall myself?”

She trailed off, shaking her head. 

“If I love him, or am falling in love with him, it’s of a different nature than the love I hold for you, one that until now I thought was a mere invention of poetry,” Margo said. “But I want both of these loves, both of you, and I won’t have either of them held as adulterous against the other.”

Eliot kissed both of her hands. “Never,” he promised. “My darling, you’ll have us both, and joyfully, so long as you can tell me—” 

“I want your children,” Margo replied. “And will they not be yours, since you and Quentin are one heart in two bodies? Your love has gifted us this opportunity.” 

“It is your genius that is the gift.” Eliot kissed the back of her hand. “Your imagination.” Her wrist. “Your _courage_.” Her palm. Eliot pressed his wife’s hand to his heart. 

Margo regally welcomed his compliments, pulling him back to his feet and standing so that she might unbutton his waistcoat. 

“All on our own terms,” she said. Then grinning: “Who could imagine just how far we’d take that particular sentiment?” 

Eliot laughed. “You must tell me what our little Lutheran Q said when you invited him to share our marriage bed. Did you try and convince him over supper?”

Margo pushed the waistcoat off Eliot’s shoulders, eyes twinkling with conspiracy. 

“I brought him in the bath,” she said, as if sharing a thrilling secret. “A glass of claret in the tub always broadened the boundaries of our conversations, don’t you think?” 

“I certainly do,” Eliot hummed. “And Quentin? This has always been the dream of his heart. Tell me, was he beautiful?” 

“I swear I could see stars in his eyes when I offered him our love.” 

Eliot closed his eyes and imagined. He would require a lengthy reenactment, he was certain. Could even their massive copper tub hold three? The possibilities of the future made him tremble.

“God, the pair of you. What a picture you must have made.” 

“And many more to come,” Margo agreed. Eliot sighed his bliss at the notion. 

Even now, he and Margo would make a lovely painting, he thought, with their dark hair and creamy white underclothes. The lush marriage bed would be their perfect backdrop. Quentin would stand before them, he imagined, gazing upon their beauty with the appreciation they deserved. And then they would make him theirs forever. 

“I never dared think, Bambi,” Eliot murmured, heat swamping him all at once. “But you and I, sharing a lover? What chaos are we about to unleash on our sweet and gentle Q?”

Margo’s smile was sharp and triumphant, and Eliot loved her desperately. 

“I have thought of little else in weeks,” she agreed, voice low and breathy. Eliot stroked his thumb over the rosy pink that blossomed on her cheek. Margo was wanting, and together Eliot and Quentin could provide for her as she deserved.

“Let us have him now,” Eliot breathed. “Let me go and fetch him, Margo, and we can—I don’t think I can wait another moment—” 

Eliot’s rush of thoughts were interrupted by a knock at their bedroom door. He couldn’t say how he knew, but when he looked to Margo he saw mirrored in her eyes the absolute certainty that it wasn’t Todd or Fen asking to join them. 

“Come in, Q.” 

Quentin slipped inside without a word, his eyes bright as he closed the door behind himself. Oh, but he was lovely. He had braved the hall without so much as a robe, dressed only in his shirtsleeves and his trousers, half undone. A few tresses of hair hung loose about his face, escaped from their tie and a blush warmed his cheeks. God, Eliot wanted to kiss him, hold him, put him against the door and _ravish_ him— 

Margo’s grip on his shoulders tightened. But of course, she had probably never seen Quentin in such circumstances, with the promise of love written into his every breath. How it thrilled him, that Margo too would know Quentin in his most tender state. 

It was just as Eliot had imagined a moment ago, Quentin drinking in the beautiful image of husband and wife, soon to be his forever. Eliot waited with Margo beside him for his lover to speak.

“While you were talking,” Quentin started, nervously swiping his hair from his face. “I thought— If you were in agreement— that we should know each other. We cannot go to a priest, but we can—“

He stopped, a beautiful flush painting his cheek. 

“I see no use in waiting,” he said, a new resolve in his voice. 

A weight settled over them, and Eliot felt a delicious heat in his belly, desire in his very bones. At his side, Margo squeezed his hand. 

Quentin fidgeted, nervous at their silence. 

“I— did I presume too much? You must be tired, after your journey— I mean, that is to say—” 

“Quentin.” 

Eliot offered his hand.

“Beloved. Please come and kiss me.”

So invited, Quentin crossed the room and folded himself eagerly into his embrace. He kissed him, as requested, and Eliot couldn’t contain his low moan of pleasure. _Christ_ , he had gone so long without his lover’s sweet touch and here they were, about to indulge themselves to the fullest. He parted his lips with his own and Quentin submitted readily. This was no longer a mere kiss. It was a prelude to lovemaking, and a deeper touch than Eliot had ever given Quentin— _any_ lover—in front of Margo. She voiced no objection, nor did Quentin hesitate. When they parted, only for the lack of air, Quentin looked drunk already. 

“Eliot,” he said with great feeling. “ _Eliot_ , I love you.” 

Oh, how those words still scraped against his heart, but Eliot welcomed the pain for the sake of the sweetness. 

“Yes,” he breathed. “You love me.” 

“The love of a man to his wife,” Quentin vowed, his broad hands cupped under Eliot’s skull. His eyes soft and bright and knowing all of Eliot’s weakness and fear and _loving him to spite it all_. “The love of a supplicant to God.”

Eliot clutched Quentin’s promise to his heart with both hands. He could learn to accept such declarations with time. He would. He _must_ , for it was Quentin’s truth and Eliot would no longer deny the truth when it was laid before him. 

“It’s I who intend to worship tonight,” he said, taking another kiss from Quentin’s lush mouth. 

“This is a lovely scene, gentlemen.”

There was no meanness in Margo’s words, or at least no meanness that Eliot didn’t wickedly enjoy. She rubbed circles on Eliot’s back as Quentin blushed prettily and ducked his head, shy in front of his soon-to-be lover. 

“I’m going to have to start reading poetry,” Margo mused, one eyebrow raised. “If this is the level of conversation to be expected in our marriage bed from now on.” 

Eliot laughed.

“My darling, this is _romance_ ,” he declared, gesturing grandly before sweeping his wife into a waltz step. “Surely you remember when we were first wed, and we never laid together without first exchanging a crown of sonnets? A sonata for every kiss? If we three are to be as spouses then there must be _imagery_.”

She felt so right in his arms, and the way he spun her could have been in the royal ballroom of the Hofburg Palace. She laughed, and when they settled she stood on her toes to kiss him. He grasped her wrist, opening his mouth to receive her passion. They parted, breathless from kissing and Eliot’s impromptu waltz. 

Eliot turned, hungry for Quentin’s gaze, to know that he _saw_ them. He wasn’t disappointed. 

“I missed it so much,” he breathed, beaming. “Watching you together.” 

Eliot could feel Margo’s smile where his hand still cupped her cheek. He felt strangely shy, Quentin admiring the love he held for his wife. He still felt ready to be chastised, as though he were being greedy to ask for Margo’s heart when he could never give his passions fully in return. Yet Quentin didn’t make him feel selfish today. Eliot felt benevolent, _generous_ , when Margo sat herself on the edge of the bed and opened her arms to their lover. Quentin came freely, and Eliot followed them onto the bed until all three of them were spread over the lush coverlet. 

Quentin and Margo’s kisses were new, almost timid, but both were such natural lovers Margo immediately fell back for Quentin cover her. She threaded her fingers in his hair, slotting their mouths together to deepen the kiss. Quentin gasped, one of his hands stroking down her face and neck until he could cup her breast through the thin material of her chemise. 

Eliot found himself with a hand pressed to his heart and a sigh escaping his lips at the beauty of the sight before him. Margo broke the kiss to offer him such an expression of affront that Eliot had to laugh. 

“Forgive me, darlings,” he said, hands covering his eyes. “Should I turn my back?”

Two hands caught his forearms to tug them away from his face, one feminine and one masculine. 

“Don’t you dare,” Quentin breathed, a grin at his lips as he pulled Eliot into a kiss, his hand still braced over Margo’s shoulder. 

“Well said, Q,” Margo agreed, tugging Eliot down to press a kiss to his lips as well when he and Quentin parted. “I expect my husband to fully supervise my encounter with his lover.” 

Eliot shivered at such a promise, and he tipped Margos head to his chest, pressing a kiss to her soft hair. 

“How easily you speak such a dream to reality, Bambi,” he said, awed as always by his marvelous wife. Quentin pulled Margo’s fingers to his lips and met Eliot’s gaze with equal wonder. 

“Are you going to please her, my love?” He asked, watching Quentin’s eyes go dark and round. 

“I pray that I do,” he breathed, eyes flicking down to Margo. Eliot grinned, something powerful and joyful fluttering beneath his breastbone. He looked down again when he felt Margo’s slim fingers circle his wrist. She licked her lips as she drew his hand beneath the veil of her shift.

“We should show him first,” she suggested, as Quentin sat back on his knees. “We have traditions in our marriage bed.”

Eliot hummed, his fingers slipping between her folds and playing at the bud of her sex. “You want him to see us, Bambi?” 

Margo sighed as Eliot began to move his fingers inside her. “ _Yes.”_

Margo shifted before he could start in earnest, wiggling and grasping the hem of her chemise to pull it over her head. Eliot ran his hand along the skin of her inner thigh, helping to anchor her to the bed as she tossed the wispy garment to the side. He smiled suggestively at Quentin as he took in the sight of them, Margo arched beautifully as Eliot dipped his fingers between her folds once more. 

Bringing his wife pleasure was second nature, as easy to Eliot as breathing. And now with Quentin there, flushed and ready to please… 

Eliot knew he wouldn’t be able to merely watch for long. Margo moaned as he breached her with a finger, drawing her wetness over her to where her clit was swollen and sensitive. Quentin sighed at the sight and reached for the hem of his own shirt, pulling it above his head and tossing it to the ground, leaving him in only his trousers as he crawled over Margo to kiss her next gasp of pleasure from her lips. 

Eliot was kissing Margo’s neck, blind to the world, when he felt a decidedly more masculine hand circle his wrist. He opened his eyes, gasping in disbelief when Quentin pulled Eliot’s fingers free of Margo’s sex and into his mouth, his brow furrowed in utter bliss. Eliot could barely hear Margo’s gasping exhalation beyond the pounding of his own pulse. 

Quentin licked him clean and then stared between Eliot’s fingers and the warm wetness of Margo’s center, as though he couldn’t find it in him to decide which was more in need of the service of his mouth. 

“Darling,” Eliot coaxed him, his voice hushed and reverent. “Do you want to really taste her?” 

Quentin’s cheeks were bright pink as he nodded. Eliot felt he was the world’s most sublime matchmaker when he turned to kiss his wife and ask “Well, dear? May he?” 

Nearly glowing, _divine_ , Margo pulled Quentin’s fingers between her thighs. Then, she ordered him, “Kiss me.” 

Mesmerized, Quentin leant up to do as asked, pressing a sweet kiss to Margo’s mouth. It was broken by her low laughter. 

“No, Q,” she said, her hand on the back of Quentin’s neck, guiding his head down between her legs. “ _Kiss_ me.” 

Eliot savored the darkening of Quentin’s eyes as Margo pushed him down until the next press of his lips fell on the bud of her sex. He watched Quentin dart his tongue out to taste, and felt the shudder that ran through Margo as he grew bolder, his kisses growing wet and messy until his face glistened with it.

“His mouth,” Eliot sighed into Margo’s ear as he watched Quentin labor. “Such a pleasure, Bambi. Have you ever felt anything like it?” 

“He’s—Ah—“ Margo squirmed against her pillows, her thighs parted over Quentin’s shoulders. “He’s certainly teachable—oh, _Eliot—“_

“I know,” Eliot breathed, holding his wife in his arms. 

He touched the rest of her, thumbing at her nipples and pinching them between his fingers. She dropped her head against his shoulder, her parted lips demanding a kiss. He submitted to her greedy mouth, giving her his tongue and licking the moans from her mouth as Quentin licked and sucked her. He picked up his pace, and her moans turned to whimpering pants, her hand in Eliot’s hair tightening just shy of painful. 

“Quentin– _Q– more–”_

Quentin’s name falling from his wife’s lips was a song, a prayer to Eliot’s ears. Always one to take instruction well, Quentin sped up his efforts, his beautiful hands braced on Margo’s hips, lifting her closer to his mouth. He moaned when her other hand threaded through his hair, pulling it slightly, and the vibrations made Margo shake from ecstasy, her release imminent. 

Quentin’s eyes opened, and he met Eliot’s gaze, and Eliot almost came from the sight. Quentin reached out, grabbing for Eliot’s hand. 

“That’s it, my love,” Eliot said, squeezing his hand. 

Quentin’s eyes fluttered closed again in utter bliss, and soon Margo was shaking in Eliot’s arms, her face a beautiful mask of pleasure as he held her fast. As the waves of her orgasm faded and Quentin sat back on his heels, Eliot realized that this was only the beginning. 

Quentin crawled over them and kissed her, gasping as Margo greedily licked into his mouth. Eliot smiled wickedly, knowing how she liked to taste, to know the evidence for herself how her lover had had her. 

“Margo,” Quentin panted, kissing over her belly now, her soft, lovely breasts, “My lady, I’ve been dreaming of this—” 

“Darling, Q, we have been waiting patiently, haven’t we?” Margo’s smile was gleaming as her chest heaved. 

“Don’t tell me you abstained all this time on my account.” Eliot kept his voice light and teasing, but his soul was warmed. Quentin tore himself away from Margo to kiss Eliot soundly. 

“We could never be truly joined until you were returned to us,” he said when they parted, low and soft like a vow. 

“To even speak of love without him in the room…” Margo murmured, as if reciting a quote of poetry. Quentin smiled at her so tenderly that it made Eliot’s heart stutter. He kissed him again, tasting his wife off of Quentin’s tongue, then he guided him into her arms. 

“Give yourself to her,” he urged, stroking his palm down the long firm line of Quentin’s back. “My love, give her _everything_.” 

“I—Margo, _please_ —”

Quentin’s words stopped with Margo’s firm hand at the back of his neck. Quentin undid the fastenings of his trousers, pushing them down and tossing them to the side along with his drawers. Knelt over them, Eliot did not see but heard the sweet slick sounds of an open mouthed kiss, Quentin arched over Margo to serve her every desire. Then—

—then Margo’s hand at the small of Quentin’s back, guiding him into the cradle of her hips. Quentin’s hand grasping at the generous swell of her thigh, spreading her further. There was a shift, a gasp from Quentin, a triumphant sigh from Margo, and then the sound of a new kind of slickness as he began to rock into her. 

It was a sacred union. Carnal, to be sure, but it was a holy moment nonetheless as Eliot witnessed Margo wrap her thighs around Quentin’s slim hips, their bodies joined in one flesh.

His lover. His _wife_. A year ago such a sight would have filled him with terror, but now Eliot could only see the beauty of the love spilling over between all three of them. Every cry of pleasure that escaped Quentin’s lips raced down his spine like lightning. The hungry grasp of Margo’s fingers against Quentin’s back made his belly clench with want. 

They were giving each other their love. They were going to give him _children._

Quentin slowed the thrusts of his hips, adjusting the position and grinding against where she was most sensitive. Margo’s mouth fell open, and Quentin caught one of her hands, bringing the palm to his lips. 

“My lady,” he gasped, kissing the pads of her fingers, the soft skin of her wrist, before dipping down once more to find her lips. “You feel– _oh–”_

The moan ripped from Quentin’s chest nearly tipped Eliot over the edge untouched.

“Let him help,” Margo commanded once she had her fill of Quentin’s mouth, grasping his hand and leading Eliot’s fingers to the bud of her sex above where she and Quentin were still joined in passion. “I want you both—need it— _oh…”_

Eliot savored the sight of Margo arching off the bed as he stroked and petted her, her slickness easing the way and Quentin’s deep grind squeezing his fingertips against her clit.

“Margo,” Quentin breathed, his parted lips glancing over her cheek. “Margo, please come. Let me—darling, let us feel your pleasure.” 

Eliot pressed his lips to his wife’s hair, rocking with the urgent movement of their lovemaking, his hand still at work between her thighs.

“Please,” he echoed Quentin’s words. “Sweet Bambi, show me. Does our lover give you what you need?”

Eliot held her as she came undone, crying out her pleasure as they stroked her through the throes. Quentin gripped the headboard, seeking leverage or support as he felt her climax around him. Eliot knew how it felt, the way Margo’s sex rippled and tensed around her lover as she climaxed. It had been a thing of only mechanical pleasure to him, when they laid together on their wedding night and others like it, but now Eliot watched in wonder as Quentin was unmade and reborn in Margo’s embrace. 

Quentin tucked his face against Margo neck, thrusting once more before burying himself deep inside of her and coming, the muscles of his back tense and his grip tight on the headboard before him. 

Margo stroked his back lovingly, and Quentin lifted himself off of her on shaking arms, stroking her hair back from her face. 

“Margo—“ Quentin’s brown eyes were bright, beautiful as he gazed down lovingly at Eliot’s wife _._ “Margo, I—“

Margo silenced him with a finger to his lips. “Let’s save the words, Q, hm? Keep them for...for the right moment. Besides, I think we both—all _three_ of us—already know.” 

“Yes.” Quentin touched her, a long lock of her hair flowing through his fingers like water. He looked like a man blessed. “Yes we do.” 

Eliot couldn’t look away as Quentin dipped down, shy, but so _eager_ , and gave Margo his breathless kiss. He kissed her once because he loved her, and again to steal the gasp from her lips as he carefully drew himself out of her. 

Eliot’s hand drifted between them, stroking idly over Quentin’s hair and Margo’s belly as they found their sense again in each other’s arms. He half-thought he might just die happy watching them, until Quentin’s heated gaze rose to him and he remembered all at once the desperate throb of arousal between his legs.

Quentin read his expression like an open book. 

“Margo,” he breathed, “My lady, thank you. But I have been neglecting my lover.” 

Margo laughed, flushed and pleasure drunk in Quentin’s embrace, legs still wound around his hips. 

“We can’t have that,” she agreed, drawing her thumb over his bottom lip and sweeping his soft hair away from his face. “He’s been without us for so long. You’ll have to take good care of my husband, Q.” 

“I plan to.”

She took one more kiss from him before setting him in the direction of where Eliot laid beside her. Eliot gladly received Quentin’s kiss, licking the taste of his wife from his lips.

When Quentin’s hand drifted lower, petting over his belly, and then his groin, reaching for where he was hard and wanting, Eliot broke away. 

“I can see to myself,” he said, suddenly unsure of what a union like this entailed. What conventions did you abide by when the rules had been completely unraveled? “My love you have already–”

Quentin’s brow furrowed, but there was only patient frustration there. He flattened a palm against Eliot’s chest. 

“Would you deny me what is mine?” 

Eliot shuddered as Quentin pushed him onto his back.

“Never again, darling, but your jaw must be terribly sore already—“

Quentin kissed over his nipples, then down the trail of hair that led to his cock. He unbuttoned Eliot’s trousers, mouth already open and wanting. 

“Oh yes, terribly,” Quentin agreed as he bent his head and took Eliot into his mouth to the hilt.

Eliot practically spasmed from the pleasure, his hands going tight in the pillow under his head. He had known it earlier while Quentin had seen to Margo, but memories couldn’t serve to truly represent reality. Their months of separation had dulled his senses, and Eliot could not have been prepared for how it felt to be touched by this man, to be _loved_ by him. 

“Quentin– _Q–”_

Quentin opened his eyes, holding his gaze while he bobbed his head, his cheeks hollow. Eliot reached down to thread his fingers in his hair and Quentin moaned, taking him deeper and swallowing when Eliot bumped the back of his throat. The pressure around his cock was so exquisite as to nearly be painful. 

Quentin pulled off, gasping, using his hand to stroke him while he caught his breath. 

“I want you to come,” Quentin said, leaning his forehead against the crease of Eliot’s hip. “I want—“

Eliot touched his face, thumbed the corner of his mouth. 

“I know,” Eliot breathed, the breadth of Quentin’s perfection staggering. “I want to be inside you, if I’m still welcome there.”

Quentin slowed his hand, turning to Margo. 

“My lady,” Quentin said, his voice husky from the brief intrusion of Eliot’s cock into his throat. 

Eliot hadn’t noticed Margo beside him, sitting with her knees to the side, watching the scene before her while stroking lazily between her legs. 

“Margo,” Quentin entreated, pressing a kiss to the tip of Eliot’s cock. “I want him to have me.”

Eliot watched Margo carefully. He knew, this was Quentin’s way of asking her permission, if this was a line she was willing to cross in their bond. He waited for her to hesitate, but the moment refused to come. Instead her eyes flashed, and her lips parted. 

“Yes–” she said, her voice more broken than Eliot had ever heard it. “I think– I think he should. I want to see it.”

She turned to Eliot, her gaze fire, but… there was tenderness there as well. She cupped his cheek, and Eliot leaned into the touch. 

“Would you show me?” She asked quietly. 

Eliot sat up, divesting himself of his trousers completely and pulling Quentin into his lap with one arm and Margo in to be kissed with the other, crossing the once invisible barrier of their bond. She sighed. Her lips were red, having been kissed by Quentin so many times. It was as if they were becoming one. One soul in three persons.

“I should love nothing more,” he whispered against her cheek. 

“Show me,” she said again, her voice taking in the edge of a command. “Show me how you love him. Eliot–”

He would not deny her, and neither would he deny the man in his lap who clung to him now, knees spread apart over Eliot’s legs. 

“Eliot,” Quentin sighed, taking his hand and pressing a kiss to his palm. It was sweet, almost chaste, contrasting greatly with the way Quentin then took two of his fingers into his mouth and sucked as he did before, this time with a new intention writ across his face. His eyes fluttered shut as if an act so simple gave him pleasure, breathing harshly through his nose. 

Eliot marveled, petting his fingers over Quentin’s soft tongue. 

“How did I ever leave you?”

Quentin pulled his fingers free. 

“You never will again.”

His words were firm, and so was the way he guided his hand around his backside. Eliot inhaled in shock, leaning his forehead against Quentin’s shoulder.

“Oh, _Christ_ , Quentin—“

Quentin had readied himself for him. While he had waited for Eliot and Margo to summon him he had taken himself alone to his room and— 

There were no words to match the hunger in his lover’s eyes as Eliot played his fingers where Quentin had made himself wet and open. He slipped inside easily, and Quentin only sighed dreamily as Eliot pushed his fingers deeper. Eliot could weep, to know that after all the labors of Quentin’s lovemaking to he and Margo both tonight he still hungered with need to be one with him. 

“Eliot.” Quentin’s eyes were bright, his mouth soft and reddened. “Eliot please.”

How had he ever left him, he thought again to himself? How could Eliot have been so cruel, when Quentin needed him so badly?

It was the clumsy work of a few seconds to find the oil to slick Eliot’s cock and then Quentin was holding himself steady over Eliot’s lap, lining himself up and bearing down.

Eliot saw his own naked relief mirrored in Quentin’s face as he sank onto his cock, taking him in. How fearful he had been, Eliot realized staring into the truth of Quentin’s ecstasy, that they would never know this perfect union again, and yet here they were. This was what it meant to be whole.

Quentin settled fully onto his lap, the sweet clench of his body every pleasure and bliss that Eliot had been dreaming of all these long months. His next exhale shook out as a sob, and he felt the brightness of tears in his eyes.

“Shh, Eliot. You’re home now. You’re home with us.” 

Eliot was in heaven, and Margo’s reassurance a divine revelation in his ear. She kissed his neck, her hand a welcome presence at his back as he took Quentin in his arms.

“I am,” he agreed, unable to tear his gaze away from Quentin’s beautiful eyes, shining as they were with bliss. “Thank God, I’m finally home.” 

Quentin adjusted slowly, his body no longer accustomed to penetration after their long separation, but soon enough his gaze sharpened as he levered himself up in Eliot’s lap and sank down with a shuddering moan. 

“Look at you,” Margo hummed, hooking her chin over Eliot’s shoulder, reaching a hand out to stroke his chest. She could only have her eyes on Quentin, for who could look away from such a sight? “It’s no wonder Eliot fell so hard, when this is how you receive him.”

Quentin leaned forward to kiss her, shuddering into her mouth as he rose and fell on Eliot’s cock. “Do you see how he makes me his?” he asked, voice low and reverent. “How wholly I belong to him?” 

“Yes, Q.” Margo moved to kneel beside them, tenderly sweeping Quentin’s hair back from his shoulder and making room for Eliot’s eager kisses to his throat. “It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful together.”

Eliot laid back, taking Quentin with him until he lay atop him. Quentin shuddered as he continued to roll his hips, taking Eliot as deep as the position allowed, whining with frustration when it wasn’t enough. Eliot wondered if they could ever be close enough.

Finding the answer would be their life’s work. 

“Should I make you come like this?” Eliot asked, the span of Quentin’s hips lovely in his hands, ghosting his hand over his cock. “Tell me, Q. I’ll give you anything you want. Do you want me on my back for you?”

Quentin shook his head urgently, pressing his brow to Eliot’s before kissing along his jaw. 

“Have me,” he whispered, hot and secret in his ear. “I beg you, Eliot, have me as fiercely as you can.”

Eliot nearly spent himself then and there, a ragged groan torn from his throat. Every time— _every time_ —he thought Quentin couldn’t possibly accept the depths of his love—the depravity of his need—Quentin not only allowed it, but _pleaded for it._

By god, he would give him everything he wanted. With a helpless shudder, Eliot put his lover on his back and loosed the feral hunger that thudded through his veins. He tugged him close by his firm thighs and took him, Quentin’s sweet mouth open against his and the bed rocking beneath them with the force of his thrusts. Quentin—thrilled, eager, the scratch of his blunt nails a sting against Eliot’s back—received everything he gave.

“Oh—oh, Christ, Eliot, _yes—“_

Quentin’s cries were loud, beautiful, _shameless_ in his pleasure. This— god above— this would forever more be Eliot’s most sacred duty. To guard his wife’s happiness, protect his children, and to hold Quentin down to the bed and fuck him until he wept his ecstasy for God and all the saints to hear. It was true music, Eliot thought as he labored until his brow dripped sweat and his thighs burned. He could never write a concerto so beautiful as Quentin’s cries of love.

“Please, please—Eliot, I’m going to come—” 

“Yes,” Eliot promised him, wrapping his fist around Quentin’s cock, bracing his knees against the bed to stroke inside of him where he was most sensitive. “Yes, you are.” 

Quentin tilted his head back, squeezing his eyes shut as if overcome. Eliot, wild, took a handful of his hair between his fingers, pulling only slightly until Quentin hissed and opened his eyes, eyes nearly black. 

“Look at me.” 

Eliot’s voice was broken in its command, but Quentin followed his instruction, tumbling over the edge with another thrust of Eliot’s hips and a pull from his hand. 

Margo kissed Eliot’s neck, pressed against his back. “Eliot— fuck—“

Quentin’s chest was painted pink in its flush. Eliot held fast to his ribs, thumbing over one of his nipples and holding him fast as the tension of his climax released. 

It was beautiful, rapturous, and Eliot was close— _so close—_ but Quentin was already shuddering with oversensitivity. He made to pull out and finish himself but Quentin clung to him at once.

“Spend in me,” he demanded, then softer, against his lips: “Beloved, please. I waited—I waited for you— _please_ , give me what I’ve been longing for.”

“Will you deny him?” Margo’s voice was a wicked whisper in Eliot’s ear, and he shook his head desperately. His eyes closed in the face of overwhelming pleasure—Quentin so sweet and slick and tight around him, the tender touch of Margo’s hand in his hair—and Eliot came. 

_Oh_ , had he truly not spent since Quentin gently touched him last? Yes, he realized as his back arched and his extremities tingled. He had barely thought of his body’s need in all these months, for to come by his own hand would surely have been a sin knowing Quentin yet existed in this world.

This was his most holy confession. He knew he would be forgiven. 

Eliot pressed their brows together, their chests still heaving, and kissed his face. There was a time—Lord, it seemed a lifetime ago, but truly it was only the space of weeks—when Eliot would have feared this thought more than any other, certain of its poison, but now with nothing but pleasure and longing in Quentin’s eyes Eliot let the truth spill forth. 

“You— you are mine,” he promised him breathlessly, the words a sacred commandment. “Ours. My darling, no hands but our own will ever touch you again.” 

Quentin— his mouth sweet and red from use, his thighs and belly trembling from his exertions—sighed, and it was an exhalation of pure gratitude. 

“That’s all I’ve ever prayed for.”

Eliot sealed his vow with a kiss, then slid free of Quentin’s embrace. Fen kept a clean pitcher of water beside Margo’s vanity with some clean towels and Eliot used these to clean the worst of the sweat from their bodies, anointing each action with a kiss. Margo preferred to rest with her hair braided and so Eliot fetched a slip of ribbon from her bedside table and sat behind her for a few minutes, weaving her locks into a neat plait.

It was serene and surreal. They might have been preparing for bed on any ordinary night, but for Quentin lain on his side at their feet, watching their simple intimacies with glittering eyes. It was new, with all the fluttering of butterflies between them, but the rightness of it made Eliot shiver, though he was far too spent for anymore lovemaking that night. 

When he finished Margo’s braid, she found her chemise and slipped it over her head. Only then did Eliot remember the more base needs of his body after such a long journey, and Quentin donned his rumpled clothes and braved the kitchen to bring them back a tray. It reminded Eliot poignantly of Leipzig, of the beginnings of their courtship made complete now with Margo’s presence. They ate on the bed like the emperors and empresses of antiquity, feeding each other and laughing. 

“Did Frau Schiller make any complaints about the noise?” Eliot teased, kissing some jam from the corner of Quentin’s mouth. “You were singing like a bird, my love.”

Margo laughed. “She would never tease such an easy target.”

Quentin blushed so beautifully, still. 

Some time later, they left the tray outside of the door and settled in for the night. As it was Margo’s bed, she had no qualms about pulling back the coverlet and Eliot beside her, but Quentin hesitated, as though after all their promises tonight he still hesitated to take his place between man and wife.

“My love. My sweetness, come here.” Eliot pulled Quentin into his arms and beneath the clean white sheets. He kissed him, and it was good and right and _blessed_. They were all three of them together under the covers and it was a domestic scene right out of Eliot’s loneliest Parisian dreams. “Q, what do you need? What can I give you?”

“I—” Quentin nuzzled against Eliot’s mouth, brushing his lips over the stubble on his chin as they tucked their feet together. “Eliot.” 

“Anything, Quentin,” Eliot urged. “Ask it of me.” 

“Just hold me,” he sighed, and for such a humble request it shook Eliot to his very core. He pressed Quentin’s ear to his breast, his head tucked under his chin. They fit together perfectly. Margo watched over them fondly with her elbow braced against her pillow.

“What about you?” Quentin asked, the words a hum against Eliot’s breast. “What do you need, Eliot?” 

Eliot bit back the _nothing_ that came too quickly to his tongue. Instead he breathed, and let Quentin stroke his fingers through the hair on his chest, until he could ask— 

“Tell me again?” 

He felt Quentin’s smile against his collarbone. 

“My darling, I love you.”

Eliot had to hide his face in Quentin’s hair, eyes burning. 

“And you’ll never—” He swallowed. “You’ll never send me away?”

It was selfish to ask again, after the suffering he had caused them both with his idiotic exile. Eliot closed his eyes lest he look upon his wife and lover and finally see the end of their patience, their love and gentleness finally replaced with irritation at Eliot’s endless insecurity. 

He felt Quentin rise up onto his elbows, and fearfully Eliot opened his eyes when he felt the touch of a hand to his chin. What he found in Quentin’s brown eyes was not frustration but tenderness, tinged with sadness. 

“It was a beast, not a man, who ever put such a fear in your heart.”

Eliot looked away, his old wounds throbbing and bare before Quentin’s loving gaze. He knew, he _knew_ after so many months and testimonies of the cruel truth he had to face regarding his first lover, but even now it was all to easy for a denial to spring to his lips.

“No, I—it was my—Mikhail didn’t—“ 

“Don’t you dare speak that name in our marriage bed, Eliot Waugh.”

Margo face brooked no nonsense as she curled into Eliot’s side. Quentin shifted to his left and set his arm about his middle and then Eliot was being held, his lover’s lips pressed to his shoulder and his wife settling her head beside his on their pillow, resting their brows together. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” she murmured to him. “You didn’t deserve it.” 

“Your love is a gift,” Quentin promised, his voice a low rumble in Eliot’s ear. “A treasure, Eliot. Only a fool would throw it away.”

Eliot realized he was trembling. Margo stroked his hair. 

“It’s time,” she said. “We’re going to be a _family_. You don’t have to carry this poison with you any longer.” 

Then one more time, softly: “My love, it wasn’t your fault.”

Eliot didn’t realize he was crying until he heard the _plop_ of a tear land on the pillow beneath his head. It was like the draining of a wound, hot and bitter but healing. _Freeing_ . Quentin held him fast, and Margo did nothing to stifle his tears, and so he wept. He wept for the childhood he suffered in his father’s house, and the family he had to sacrifice for the sake of his nature. He wept for the young man he once was, who should have been allowed a tender first love and instead was offered coldness and cruelty. Finally, he wept for the sweet relief of being _home_ , held and sated and safe where he belonged. 

“We starve for your love, Eliot,” Margo said to him, once his tears had calmed and he was little more than a raw nerve in their arms. “Do you understand? Our marriage is the greatest joy of my life.” 

“Too much could never be enough,” Quentin agreed, his voice a dreamy murmur in Eliot’s ear. “I did not know my heart was capable of holding so much, yet this is what your love for us has wrought. We have all three of us lain together in a marriage bed, love overflowing and yet we hunger for you still.”

Margo smiled at Quentin’s words, and wound their fingers together so that they laid hand in hand, and Eliot the beating heart between them. He felt so warm. So safe. 

So loved.

“This has been a deeply sacred night,” he murmured into Margo’s midnight dark hair. He felt Quentin kiss his agreement into the back of his neck, then rest his brow there, his breath turning slow and even with sleep as was his habit after a vigorous round of lovemaking. Margo smiled at him, her hooded gaze still quick and clever and full of brilliant schemes as always. She gave a little shiver as she shifted closer into his arms and Eliot was reminded starkly of the truth of Quentin’s seed between her thighs. Of the joy and gravity of what their love had indeed wrought, and what was to come. 

“Things are never going to be the same, are they?” He wondered as he savored the quiet little opera that was Quentin falling into slumber. 

“Indeed not, darling,” Margo agreed, giving Eliot a quick kiss before settling back into their shared pillow. “I think we are going to find ourselves beautifully changed from here on out.”

Surrounded by love, Eliot slept. 

He slept heavily, his body exhausted not from sorrow or drink or overwork, but from the ecstasy of knowing the pleasure of the two people he loved most in the world. Dreamlessly, he woke before the sun, his arms around Margo’s sleeping form. He reached out blindly for the warmth of Quentin’s body, missing it. 

Quentin caught his hand, and Eliot turned, watching as his love brought it sleepily to his lips.

“Good morning,” Eliot murmured sleepily, pressing a leg between Quentin’s to feel his warmth. 

Quentin smiled. 

“Not just yet.” He clasped Eliot’s hand close to his heart. “The sun sleeps still.”

“What are you doing up?”

Quentin shrugged. “I’m… excited. I suppose. For everything that is to come.”

Eliot squeezed his hand. “Now that we’re together again.”

Quentin nodded. Out of the corner of his eye, Eliot spotted his little blue book of poetry in Quentin’s hand. Quentin’s Christmas gift. 

Quentin followed the line of his gaze. He smiled, letting the book fall open between them. 

“It had fallen from your jacket pocket. I was surprised that you kept it with you.”

“It came with me wherever I went,” Eliot whispered. “My lover’s poetry safe in my pocket next to my heart.”

Quentin shook his head, shy suddenly. “It’s not as if I wrote them.”

“But it was a gift from your heart, all the same. I must confess though... I never did decode your inscription. I must have read each poem at least a hundred times.”

Quentin let go of his hand, taking the book and flipping to a certain page. He cleared his throat before reciting quietly:

 _I don’t believe in God above,_ _  
__Who gets the preacher’s nod:_ _  
__I only trust your heart now,_   
And have no other God.

Eliot blinked, his eyes suddenly warm and wet. 

“The moment I read that poem I thought of you. How we need not the blessing of priests or deities,” Quentin said. “And now… my feelings are proven true. I care not for the love of God if I have the love of the man and woman in this bed.”

_No other god before thee._

What could Eliot say to such devotion? He didn’t try to match the poetry of his lover’s mouth, instead kissing it with thorough resolve until Quentin melted in sweet repose against the pillows. Quentin read him more poetry from the little blue book, his voice low to preserve Margo’s slumber. 

Sleep took them once more, and when Eliot woke again, the sun had risen. He rose quietly, slipping into his shirt and trousers. With one last look at their sleeping forms, he left quietly, padding down the stairs to the study. 

In the silence of the house, he heard music. 

It was as it had been when he was a boy, walking through the forest on a snowy afternoon. His brothers had run ahead, their screams and teasing too far to hear. Instead, he had heard music in the way the sunlight had caught the snow, had felt the melodies of the Earth in the flap of a bird taking flight. 

When he had been alone, music had been his constant companion. 

He lifted the keyboard cover, running his fingers over the keys. He smiled, thinking of the instruments he had played on tour. Some had been grand and others had been mediocre and ill-cared for, but this piano was _home._ He sat at the bench, Quentin and Margo’s melody running through his mind. 

He would never be alone again. 

He could finish it now, the music that has rested in his heart this past year, he knew he could. 

[ Quentin’s melody ](https://youtu.be/InKk1aowFZ4) came first, the soulful tune resting in the tenor voice surrounded by soft arpeggios. It described the way he stuttered and repeated himself the night in Leipzig when he invited Eliot back to his apartment. 

_It isn’t much, but I thought perhaps that here, we could be alone—_

How he had trembled when Eliot had asked for him to return to Vienna with him. 

_Yes, I will, if you will have me._

His soft voice, speaking words of love into the space between Eliot’s neck and shoulder on Christmas Eve. 

_Eliot, Eliot I love you._

The second section repeated the melody, this time in the soprano. The accompaniment was thicker, More passionate, more sure– this was Margo, as he had remembered her while he was Paris. In each stroke of the keys was the way she held his hand so tight when he had asked her to be his wife. 

_We will form a confederacy against the cold, cruel world._

How she had shrugged and said _of course_ Quentin should live with them in Vienna. 

_Why don’t you simply ask Quentin to return to Vienna?_

The break in her voice when he had so selfishly left her behind. 

_You were never Idri’s great love, but you are Quentin’s, and you are mine._

Out of Margo’s theme came the climax, rolling and thunderous like the beating of his heart when he had read Margo’s simple words in his cramped Paris flat. 

_Quentin will father our children… come home to us._

Even as he played his heart jumped in his chest, to think that the two people who he loved most in the world now dearly loved each other. This music was their love made real, the physical manifestation of it. Quentin, making love to Eliot’s wife because she was precious to him as she was to Eliot, their bodies made one and sealed together with love. 

His hands fell as the climax reached its peak, and he improvised a cadenza, a twinkling waterfall of notes that described the smiles of his two great loves. Quentin’s– small and with crinkling kind eyes, and Margo’s– warm and possessive, protective of their new bond only hours old. 

After that, he paused, breathing deep, as if he had been running. The future stood in front of him, sure and clear as the rising sun. 

When his hands returned to the keys to finish it, he let them wander, finding something new by touch alone. The same melody, but sweeter, simpler, arranged with only sparse chords beneath it, and fluttering above. This was Eliot’s dream, his hope for their future: children, happiness and contentment. A family. 

It was a lullaby for a newborn baby, nameless now but soon to be found slumbering in a bassinet, their nursery between Margo’s bedroom and the north room, loved to pieces by three parents who had found each other in such a cruel world. 

A soft refrain, and utterly sublime. 

As he finished with a soft chord he heard the door open and shut quietly. Quentin came up behind him, kissing just below Eliot’s ear. 

“I’ve missed your playing,” he whispered, as if they were under a spell. 

Margo slid beside him, taking his hand. She had wrapped her dressing gown over her chemise and Quentin wore only his shirt and trousers. He kissed Eliot’s neck as he sat on the other side of the bench, trailing his lips lazily over the skin and pressing a wide palm into Eliot’s back. Margo laced their fingers together in Eliot’s lap, leaning her head on his shoulder. 

“It’s beautiful. What will you call it?” Margo asked, the hush of her voice matching Quentin’s.

He brought her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles. With his free arm he pulled Quentin close. 

“It’s a dream,” Eliot declared, holding his entire world in his two arms. “A dream of love. Ours to live from now on.”

His wife and lover had both offered him their dreams of love and family at one time or another. Eliot had made them wait far too long, but from this day on he would not allow the cruelties of his past to keep their bliss from fruition. 

With all three of them together in a loving union, nothing was impossible. 

Quentin encircled Eliot’s wrist with his fingers, drawing his hand back to the keys. 

“Play it again for us, darling?”

Eliot kissed him, then Margo, before sitting up to the bench. 

“My loves, I’ll play it anytime you like.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Franz Liszt wrote three pieces based on a poem about love, the third being the most famous in the “Liebestraum” set. It’s called “Oh, Lieb” (oh love), and is one of his most beloved pieces. Formulaically, it’s very simple, just a restatement if the same theme three different ways. This piece is structured perfectly to show the different types of love Eliot feels for both Margo and Quentin. Make sure to listen to Tiffany Poon’s beautiful recording.
> 
> Credit to Heinrich Heine for the poem that Quentin reads to Eliot from his Christmas gift. 
> 
> Thank you all for staying with us on this epic journey, and stay tuned for the epilogue to come!


	23. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, dear romantics, we made it. Though we have reached the ending of our main story, there is still so much more left to tell, and we hope this answers any questions you might have. We hope you enjoy this last look into the lives of these characters that we all love so much. We present: the happy ending.

_“I did not know how to control myself. But then I relied on Clara’s strong nature, on her love for me… at ten minutes to eleven the little one arrived— with thunder and lightning, since we had a storm just then. But her first sounds— and life again stood before us, brightly and lovingly as we were blissful with joy. How proud I am to have such a wife, who in addition to her love and her art gives me such a present.”_

_– From Robert Schumann’s journal, after the birth of his and Clara’s first child._

Vienna, Austria  
October, 1837

Their lives were forever changed, and yet, much stayed the same. 

They woke and breakfasted together each morning, reviewing their plans for the day, but now Margo received two kisses upon their entrance: one from her husband and one from her lover. Eliot returned to his duties at court and Quentin worked in the study while Margo received visitors or ventured out on calls, but now she often joined Quentin on the tail end of his work day. They played music together and kissed on the piano bench, painting a pretty picture for Eliot to find upon his arrival home. 

And in the evenings, Eliot and Quentin still sometimes slept in the north bedroom when they needed time to themselves or Margo deemed them too large or too gangly or too _warm_ to stay in her quarters. But more often than not, she forgave them their flaws, and they made a perfect union together, talking and making love into the small hours or until sleep whisked them away. These were Quentin’s favorite nights, when he could doze in the arms of the two people he loved. 

Much stayed the same, until thanks to their aforementioned union a long awaited and most welcome change made its presence known.

It was a pleasantly warm day in early October when a doctor was summoned to the Waugh household. Eliot paced the front hallway as any fretting husband should, and Quentin waited around the corner in the sitting room, just out of sight, his ear sharpened for any scrap of information. They had all been rather on edge since Margo had announced that she thought it best to call in an expert to confirm what she knew in her heart. It had been a few weeks now of early morning illness, fatigue, and a notable downtick in Margo’s typically hearty appetite. Quentin wished to share in his lady’s optimism, but still he was nervous, for such symptoms could only bring them joyful news or ill tidings regarding the health of the woman held closest in his heart.

Around noon the doctor emerged from Margo’s chambers with his diagnosis.

Quentin heart pounded against his ribs as he listened to the doctor descend the stairs. He wanted more than anything to be at his lover’s side at that moment, but it would hardly be appropriate. Information as to his wife’s health was meant only for the master of the house. It was a necessary performance, and so Quentin remained silent and listened.

“How fares my wife, Doctor?” Eliot asked, wasting no time on pleasantries. “Is it anything serious?” 

Quentin heard Dr. Steiner chuckle. “Oh, yes, it’s quite serious, but hardly an illness, sir. The Lady Waugh is in excellent health and excellent spirits.” There was some rustle of cloth as Franz assisted the doctor with his coat and hat. “Your only duty now is to see that she gets plenty of rest and doesn’t over-exert herself.”

Quentin’s breath hitched in his chest. 

“We–I will, Doctor,” Eliot said, the barest hint of a tremor in his voice. “If you might excuse my frankness, does this mean that she–? I mean to say, are we–?”

The old doctor laughed again. “My sincerest congratulations, Herr Waugh. I hope that answers your question.”

Quentin could practically hear Eliot’s smile as he replied. “Yes. Yes! Thank you.”

Quentin thought he might soar straight to the heavens and back as Eliot shook the doctor’s hand. Quentin heard the muffled sounds of Franz getting the door, in addition to Eliot’s very calm and civilized farewell. 

The door clicked shut, and Quentin couldn’t contain himself any further. He practically ran into the hall, meeting Eliot where he stood. His lover’s smile shone like a beacon.

“Could it really be true?” Quentin breathed, closing the distance between them.

Eliot swallowed, eyes shining. 

“It is,” he said, voice thick as they embraced. “Quentin, our lady…”

Quentin grabbed his hand and they took the stairs two at a time, bursting through the door to Margo’s room and showering her with all the kisses she deserved. 

Their dream of love was coming true. 

They were going to be parents.

~

Margo, always a beauty, was truly radiant pregnant. Months passed, and once out of the worst of the morning sickness she glowed, a goddess come down to earth just for Quentin and Eliot to worship. 

And worship they did.

“ _Mm..._ Q, I still need you...“

Quentin attempted to gather his frazzled thoughts as Margo flexed her thighs around his hips, grinding them together where he had just spent inside of her. This was the new norm in their marriage bed, Eliot laid beside them with heated eyes while Margo worked Quentin to exhaustion. She had already screamed her pleasure once while he made love to her, tightening her hands in his hair enough to tip him over the edge as well. But as the soft swell of her belly reminded him, in this state Margo was not sated by one mere round of lovemaking. 

“More,” she demanded between wet kisses, both of their chests still heaving.

Quentin laughed into her damp curls, his legs nearly jelly. “My lady— I don’t know if I could possibly—“

He groaned as she parted them, her own hand snaking between them to touch herself at the bud of her sex. 

Now a man did have his pride. 

The recent entrance into the middle of her pregnancy had awakened a hunger in Margo that refused to be satisfied. They never felt the cold snap of winter within these walls, where heated breaths and friction kept them plenty warm. Quentin was eager to serve, even if it did require every bit of his strength. 

He slid down the bed, batting away her fingers and replacing them with his mouth. With a sigh, she let him, winding them instead in his hair, gently rolling the sweet softness of her sex against his mouth. He had hardly begun his task in earnest, however, when he felt a shift on the mattress, and Eliot’s strong hand clasped the back of his neck.

“Allow me, Q,” he murmured, kissing Quentin’s temple. “You should keep your strength.”

Pride was the now the last thought in Quentin’s mind as he yielded with one last kiss to Margo’s sex. Eliot, who had been previously content to watch, took his place between Margo’s thighs, and her breath took on a different hitch as she recognized her husband’s clever tongue. 

Quentin laid beside her, idly kissing her neck and rolling her sensitive nipples between his fingers. In just a few short months, Quentin had learned much at the feet of Eliot’s mastery, but witnessing his labor between Margo’s thighs was still a pleasure in and of itself.

“El— I’m going to—“

Quentin watched as Eliot doubled down his efforts, his strong hands squeezing Margo’s hips as she came against his mouth. Despite his complete and utter depletion, something stirred deep in Quentin’s belly at the sight. 

He wasn’t pregnant, but he was sure that he too would never be sated enough on the love Eliot and Margo gave him. 

Margo laid between them on another such idyllic evening, with Quentin tucked behind her and Eliot lavishing kisses over her breasts and swollen belly at her front. They were all three exhausted after an evening engagement, but Eliot made sleepy conversation against his wife’s skin. 

“I find myself thinking about who our child will be” he said, lifting his face to meet their gazes, running his hands over Margo’s belly with wonder. “Will they be quick-witted and sharp? Or kind and patient?”

“One can only hope that they will acquire a combination of traits,” Margo said, laughter in her voice. 

“Yes but I am speaking not of what they will learn from us, but of their _core nature.”_

Quentin snuggled closer, content to just listen to their warm voices in the darkness. The past months had been a dream, one he was sure any day he would be forced to awaken from. 

“... found myself thinking of something else as well,” Eliot said, reaching out to touch Quentin’s arm. 

When he met Eliot’s eyes Quentin knew that this might be that day. 

Eliot parted his lips, stroking the dip of Quentin’s elbow. 

“What will our children know you as?”

Margo tensed slightly, her nature always ready for a battle, a melee of words or thrown objects. Quentin held her fast, feeling her muscles unclench slowly. 

“I’m not overly worried about it,” he confessed. “I will live here, and love you all, content to be called ‘uncle’, perhaps. You’ll never have need of a tutor, or piano teacher.” He squeezed Eliot’s hand, reassuring him of his commitment to the plan. “They needn’t be confused further. You will be their father.”

Eliot pursed his lips, obviously unsatisfied. 

“This is a _Catholic household,_ Q, one that puts a great deal of stock in ceremony and official documents with gilded seals.”

“And what is it that you had in mind, Abbé Waugh?” Margo asked, barest edge to her voice. 

Eliot flopped on his back, closing his eyes. 

“I shall have to think on it.”

It was nearly two months later when Eliot had his revelation. 

“ _Godfather_.”

Eliot shot up in bed with that pronouncement in the small hours of the morning, nearly knocking Quentin to the floor and drawing a threatening growl from Margo, who was nearing six months along. 

“Eliot, my darling husband, the house had better be on _fire_ —“ 

But Eliot could not be deterred. “No, no, my loves, I have found it, the answer to our worries. Quentin shall be our child’s godfather!” 

There was silence as Quentin and Margo absorbed this new revelation. Eliot’s expression was one of pure elation, as if with one simple idea he could repair the world for its faults. 

Quentin loved him so. 

“Eliot, I’m Lutheran.” 

Eliot kissed him. “But you needn’t be,” he declared when they parted. “A dab of oil and a sip of wine and you could be one of the sacred flock.”

Quentin suppressed a smile at Eliot’s earnestness. 

“Conversion,” he mused, picturing a rather idyllic scene. Him, holding a child swaddled in a white gown, promising to be his protector as chosen by God in the cavernous chamber of a cathedral. His whispered promise carried up to the heavens. “It’s an intriguing notion.”

Margo sat up, lighting a candle and bathing them in golden light. 

“Indeed it is,” she said. “An official role that will bind you to our children, at least in the eyes of the church. And this being a Catholic city...this might be one of your finer ideas, Eliot.”

 _“_ See _,_ Q?” Eliot said.

Quentin laughed. “My mother is going to have _opinions_.” 

“And yet, you shall be a father to your child in the eyes of God.” 

Quentin swallowed, and his voice was rough when he replied: “In that case, how could I say no to such a mild heresy?”

And so Quentin became a Roman Catholic. A conversion that was, in his opinion, almost _too_ simple. 

“I would have thought there would have been at least some suspicion,” he said to Eliot as they were ushered into a meeting with the archbishop. His romantic fantasies of secret rites and inquisitions were being dashed. It seemed his modest celebrity status was all that was required to earn him access to salvation via the Catholic Church.

“Ecclesia wants to claim all of Vienna’s musicians for her own,” Eliot murmured in his ear while they followed an ancient cleric up the aisle of the empty cathedral, eyes bright with mischief as their fingers brushed at their sides. “She’s greedy that way.” 

“Eliot, _hush_ , or they’ll throw us out—”

Whatever the reason, receiving the sacraments of initiation was as easy as scheduling a time and date, and identifying an upstanding Catholic— Eliot magnanimously volunteered, to which the archbishop deigned to only offer the briefest expression of skepticism— to serve as his sponsor into the flock. Quentin got to wear a white robe, have water dribbled over his head, oil dabbed on his brow, and receive the Eucharist on his knees. All the while Eliot stood behind him, his hand warm on his shoulder, speaking aloud the Latin responsorials at the proper moments in a low, and in Quentin’s opinion all too sultry _sotto voce_. 

The whole thing was rather more erotic than Quentin expected.

Quentin’s suspicions were proven true after the ceremony concluded and he had been declared saved. Eliot ushered him to the carriage, his eyes dark and the phantom press of his hand still on Quentin’s shoulder. It was only when Todd closed the door behind him and the curtains were drawn that Quentin was granted Eliot’s touch in earnest. 

Eliot unknotted his necktie and pulled it from his throat, trailing kisses through his open collar and running a hand down his firm chest. 

“I could scarcely control myself in the church,” he said against Quentin’s skin, pushing him back against the velvet cushions. “The way you speak Latin, I never knew—“

Quentin giggled, flushed and warm and giddy from the incense the priest had used during the ceremony. 

“I learned it in school— Eliot, _oh—“_

Eliot pressed a hand to the groin of his trousers, cutting off any coherent conversation Quentin attempted.

“I’m nearly in your lap, Eliot,” Quentin forced himself to object. “People could see.”

“We just shared sacraments in a church, darling,” Eliot murmured hotly in his ear. “You’re going to have to forgive my carrying on for a while longer.” 

They kissed for a while more in the dark interior of the carriage, their breath growing more ragged by the moment. Then a strange hesitance washed over Eliot’s features.

“My Q, fresh and holy,” he whispered, toying with the buttons on Quentin’s finest Sunday shirt. “Perhaps you wish to enjoy your new state of grace for a while, before I corrupt you again.” 

Quentin looked at Eliot sharply, then at the curtains that covered the windows of the carriage to see they were secure. Then he swung his leg over Eliot’s thighs and settled into his lover’s lap properly. 

“I, Q—”

“I hold nothing sinful in our love,” Quentin informed him firmly, “And if there is then hear this, Eliot Waugh: kiss me now, and damn us both, for I do not wish to live so much as an hour washed clean of your touch.” 

The bells of the cathedral rang in the distance, a mere cacophony compared to the symphony of desire in Eliot’s eyes. He caressed Quentin’s face, a tender touch. 

“Christ, Quentin, the things you say.”

“I only say them because of your love,” Quentin said, his hands finding their way into Eliot’s hair. “Because you have loved me so completely.”

“The things I’m going to _do_ to you in our bed tonight,” Eliot promised, tracing a hand over Quentin’s chest, down to where he was hard in his trousers. 

“I cannot wait even so long as that,” Quentin replied, and he slid to his knees in the rocking carriage.

Eliot swore, biting his lip and pulling Quentin’s hair free from the knot at the back of his head. From this angle Quentin could see how plainly Eliot wanted him, how he needed. 

“God in heaven—”

“Do we not take the sacrament kneeling?” Quentin murmured, tugging clumsily at the fastenings to Eliot’s trousers. 

“I’m not going to last,” Eliot warned as Quentin freed him from his drawers and began to stroke him. 

“Good,” Quentin replied, licking up the sweet length of Eliot’s arousal. “We have only a short carriage ride ahead of us.”

Without another word he took his lover’s cock in his mouth with intent. A few blocks later, Eliot spent, and Quentin swallowed him in bliss. He might no longer be in the Church’s state of grace, but receiving Eliot could never be anything less than a moment in paradise.

“Amen,” he declared, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Eliot’s hoarse laugh was as sweet as any hymn.

* * *

It was in late May that Margo finally received the long awaited wish of her heart. And all that stood between her and the joys of parenthood, to be shared with the two great loves of her life? 

A day and night of hellish agony.

The lady paced her room, hands braced to the small of her back and doing anything to avoid looking at the empty bassinet in the corner waiting to be filled. It was ten o’clock in the morning on a Tuesday, and her water had broken while having tea with her cousin in the parlor, staining the sofa Eliot had custom ordered for her on their second wedding anniversary. Now, she stood in her nightgown in the middle of the day, holding poor Fen’s hand tight enough to hear bones grind together. 

But God, did it _hurt._

“Breathe through it, my lady–”

_"Fuck–”_

“Let it all out, my lady, no harm in a good curse in times such as these!”

Margo laughed, Frau Schiller’s presence in her birthing room indeed a blessing. She felt safe with the old maid there, despite her never having given birth herself, the woman was an expert on bringing healthy children in the world. 

She tucked a few sweaty strands of Margo’s hair behind her ears. Margo swallowed, sitting on the edge of her bed to breathe through the last of the wave of pain. 

“Did Todd leave to fetch them yet?” she asked Fen. “They should be here by now.”

“Todd left at a run, my lady, and Herrs Waugh and Coldwater I’m sure will as well, with the carriage, I mean.”

Margo nodded, wincing when some leftover pain shot through her lower back. Fen was more nervous than her, nearly upending the bowl of hot water Frau Schiller had her fetch when Margo had cried out in the first wave of pain. 

“Never mind, Fen, I’m sure they’re coming as quickly as they can–”

Just then, the door to her bedroom flew open, and Eliot burst through, flushed and breathless and still wearing his hat. 

“About time,” Margo announced, though she smiled all the same. 

“My love–” Eliot strode across the room. “Are you alright? How are you feeling?”

“Better now that you’re here.” Margo allowed Eliot to clasp her hand and kiss her, noting the tremble in his fingers. “Where’s Quentin?” 

Eliot blinked, and looked over his shoulder, his brow furrowing as though he was surprised not to find his lover at his side.

“Why, he was right behind me, I swear—” 

“And I am still,” Quentin announced, entering the room at a more reasonable pace, his hat and gloves removed. “Eliot, you knocked poor Franz flat on his back racing through the foyer. I had to check he hadn’t turned his ankle.” 

“I heard our lady’s distress as we came in the door,” Eliot declared, pulling Margo’s fingers to his lips. “I shall apologize to our dear Franz at a later date.” 

Quentin cast a concerned glance at Eliot from behind, then looked to Margo knowingly. It was no secret that among them it was Margo’s husband who was most nervous now that the great event was upon them. Still Margo felt her own relief to have both men at her side, and to know that they had rushed home upon her summons. She did her best not to hold ill will against her cousin Rolf, but if Eliot or Quentin had proved indifferent to her state as Sophia’s husband had Margo would have been devastated. 

Quentin rested a hand on Eliot’s shoulder as he leaned in to kiss Margo’s cheek. 

“However I may best serve in this sacred venture, my lady,” he murmured, resting their brows together. “Just say the word.”

Eliot murmured his agreement, and it was as though they had read her thoughts. A secret and lingering anxiety fizzled out behind her breast, and Margo sighed happily.

“Even in the birthing room, I’m to receive poetry I see.” 

The three of them shared a smile, and then the pain returned, tightening around Margo’s abdomen as she grabbed both of their shoulders to stabilize herself. She clenched her toes inside her shoes, gritting her teeth as her body prepared itself for what was soon to come. 

It was a quick burst that soon passed, and she collapsed back against the bed to catch her breath. 

Eliot stared, his eyes round and his dear face gone milk white. 

“What was that?” he demanded, sitting beside her. “Is something wrong?” 

“That’s the way of these things, Herr Waugh,” Frau Schiller said from across the room where she was organizing some sets of clean sheets. “A evening’s worth of them and then you’ll have the little one.” 

Eliot looked appalled. “It’s going to happen _again_?” 

Margo couldn’t contain a giggle, slightly hoarse as it may have been. “You have about—” She glanced at the clock on the mantle. “—five minutes to grow accustomed to the idea, darling.” 

Eliot mopped his brow with his pocket handkerchief before doing the same for Margo.

“At least one of us is in a laughing mood,” he said weakly. 

“Surely in your idyllic pastoral childhood you experienced a birth or two?” Margo asked, getting her breath back. “You’ve mentioned younger siblings.” 

“Just the one,” Eliot corrected her, wringing his hands. “And as a son I was barred from the house. I spent the night in the freezing stables with my older brothers and all there was to be heard was wailing and the shouting of the midwife—” 

“Eliot, do you know what would be a true relief to me at this moment?” Margo asked, heading off her husband’s dark childhood anecdote before he worked them all into hysteria. Eliot immediately focused, clasping her hand once more. Honestly, sometimes she felt like a damsel in a novel, with all the dramatic clasping and gripping that went on. 

“Anything, Margo. Name it.” 

Margo breathed in and out slowly, as Frau Schiller had showed her. 

“Would you help me with my hair?” she asked. “It’s a terrible mess, and if I can only hope to be comfortable for the hours to come from the neck up then we should at least take hair pins out of the equation.”

Eliot loved to braid Margo’s hair, and Margo loved that he loved it. That it served also as a harmless distraction was beside the point. Eliot took the pins out of her now messy day bun with quick fingers, combing through the loosened curls as they tumbled down her back. Quentin sat on her other side, calm and collected as Eliot worked. Quentin was excellent in a crisis, she had found one morning when the chimney flue had malfunctioned and their house had been full of smoke. He had calmly helped her navigate the stairs in her pregnant state to get to the fresh air outside. It was only a crisis of his own mind that cut him off at the knees. 

He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. 

“Are you sure you don’t wish for us to call for the doctor?” He asked quietly, without judgement. 

She nodded. “Yes. I won’t have him near my birth. Frau Schiller is all I need. And my family.” 

The minutes passed, and another wave of pain left Margo gasping. 

“And you’re sure, Frau Schiller?” Eliot asked again, for what seemed like the hundredth time. “You’re sure all of this is completely normal?”

“As normal as these things can be, Herr Waugh,” Frau Schiller answered, patient as a saint. “It will be over soon enough and then you will have your son.”

“Or daughter,” Quentin muttered with a smile, laying a comforting hand on Margo’s thigh. 

Eliot was unconcerned with discussing the gender of the unborn child, his mouth a tight and worried line as he started to plait Margo’s hair in a long braid. 

“How was the rehearsal?” Margo asked, trying to switch to lighter subjects. “A second concerto is no small feat.”

“Quentin’s music is a triumph, of course,” Eliot said casually. “Penny’s new orchestra is rather unruly.”

“They’re fine,” Quentin said. “Starting a public orchestra is a grand venture. I’m honored to be a part of it.”

Margo snorted a laugh as Eliot finished her braid. 

“I sense a bit of a tiff,” she said. “I won’t have any fighting amongst my men.”

“No fighting,” Eliot promised. “Especially not now, with you—“

He stopped, resting his hands against Margo’s back and leaning his forehead against her shoulder. 

“Whose idea was this?”

“Eliot, don’t be silly,” she said, reaching for his hand on her shoulder. “I’ll be just fine.”

“Yes, yes,” he agreed. “Only, have I told you lately that I love you terribly, and how grateful I am every day for your blessed companionship?” 

Margo sighed, exchanging a rueful smile with Quentin. “Not since breakfast yesterday.” 

Eliot kissed the back of her neck. “Then it’s been far too long.” 

“Your sentiments are noted, dearest,” Margo said, before calling out “Todd!”

“My lady?” Todd appeared in the doorway at once confirming Margo’s suspicions that he too had been hovering just outside the birthing room. He practically bounced on his heels as he waited to hear how he could be of service. 

“Todd, I would love for every man in this house to be poured a large brandy, staff included.” Margo appreciated Frau Schiller’s bark of laughter. Eliot’s response was less humored. 

“Margo, really, if you think I’m leaving you in such a delicate condition—” 

“And two for my husband,” she concluded. 

“I’ll...set up some glasses in the study,” Todd agreed, after a glance between the three of them. He left, and Margo sighed again. Her loves were here, and their presence had given her new strength, but now it was time for her—and Frau Schiller—to set about their work without two nervous fathers-to-be underfoot. 

She expected further objections from Eliot but it was Quentin who pressed her hand, concern in his eyes. 

“Darling, are you sure?” he asked. “If it’s a concern of propriety...” 

Margo laughed. “I think you’ve both seen all of me there is to see.” 

It was worth the coarse language to see Quentin’s dear blush over Fen and Frau Schiller’s titters, but then Margo spoke truly. 

“I want to be here, with these capable ladies,” she said. “And I want to know the fathers of my child are pacing the halls, counting the seconds until we can celebrate our joy.” 

Quentin smiled, wry, but his eyes were soft. Margo knew that he understood. 

“Very traditional, my lady.” 

“We ought to keep at least one or two, don’t you think?” Margo replied. Her lover nodded. 

“If this is your wish,” he agreed. “Then we’ll only be just downstairs, right Eliot?” 

Eliot nodded, but he said, in a small voice, “Might I have just one moment with my wife, Q?” 

Quentin looked upon his lover tenderly, then leaned in to kiss Margo one more time. Margo smiled against the bow of his lips, and brushed her thumb over the trace of stubble on his chin. He was so dear, their Quentin. She could hardly wait to hold his child in her arms.

“Of course. I’ll wait for you, and for our new arrival,” he said, somehow speaking to both she and Eliot at once. With one last loving look he slipped out the door. Margo heard his footsteps on the stairs as she tipped her head back to kiss Eliot’s cheek. 

“Speak to me, El,” she murmured. Eliot kissed her shoulder again stubbornly, but then with a soft exhale he slid out from behind her and onto the floor, so that he could rest his brow on her knees. Margo heard Frau Schiller step out of the room for a moment to give them privacy. After a deep breath, he spoke. 

“I cannot live without you, darling. You know that, right?” For a moment, Eliot looked truly terrified, and Margo realized that her husband had never in his life witnessed her in worse pain than a turned ankle after a tipsy waltz gone awry. She cupped his jaw in her two hands. 

“I knew the cost of this task from the outset, and it’s not one that you can relieve me of,” she said. “All I need is your trust, and your belief that I can see it through.” 

Eliot nodded, taking her hand in his and kissing it. 

“You have it,” he promised. “Of course. My goddess, there is nothing impossible for you.” 

Margo smiled, and kissed the crown of Eliot’s head. Even kneeling he was so tall she hardly had to bend forward. He was such a sweet bean stalk of a man. 

“Be brave,” she ordered. “And look after Todd, dear. I think he secretly might be the most nervous out of us all.” 

Eliot laughed, which had been her goal, and shortly after he departed, with the vow that he was only a floor away if Margo had need of him. Indeed though they were out of sight, Margo could feel both of her companions presence, and hear the low murmur of their voices downstairs. Still, for now at least she appreciated the quiet as Fen and Frau Schiller helped her to her feet for a healthy walk about the room. 

“Is it bad to say that they were reminding me of how nervous I am?” she asked. “They call me divine but I’ve never felt so mortal.” 

“My lady, if you don’t mind me saying so,” Frau Schiller declared, her hand firm and guiding at Margo’s back, “You have little to worry about. You’re healthy as a horse and twice as stubborn. Divinity has nothing to do with it.” 

Margo squeezed her cook’s hand, and Fen’s. Her own mother had passed when she was young, Sophia was in the country, and her aunt had sent her a card of good wishes making it very clear that she looked forward to seeing her at the christening. This, here and now with these two women, was all the female family that Margo required to see her through this challenge. 

“Thank you, Frau Schiller,” Margo replied. “Two of my very best qualities, if I say so myself.” 

“There you are, my lady,” Frau Schiller said, patting hand with a smile. “If your wisp of a noble cousin can birth four sons then we can most certainly manage one.” 

Margo laughed, quite enjoying the familiarity that came with the interior of a birthing room. Of course, laughter was not destined to be the main emotion of the evening. It was only a few moments later that another contraction struck, a red hot iron band around her belly. They were getting longer, though there could be hours yet to go. 

“Shh, my lady, breathe. As we practiced,” she could hear Frau Schiller coaxing, and indeed, Margo did her best to follow her lead of short, hard breaths until the thing subsided and she could go lax against the cook’s sturdy frame for a moment, her brow wet with fresh sweat.

“Time, Fen?” 

“Only four minutes apart this time, Frau Schiller,” Fen replied. “I’ve kept my eye well to the clock.”

“Yes, well done. We’ll see the babe before morning, I’m sure of—” 

Both women paused in their conversation suddenly, and Margo felt a twinge of anxiety. 

“Is all well?” she asked, her chest still heaving. Fen was at her side in a moment. 

“Yes, yes, of course, my lady,” she assured her. “But... _listen_.” 

With an iron will Margo settled her breathing, that she might hear beyond the rush of air in and out of her lungs, and...yes. Seeping into the room, through the floorboards, was music. It was Eliot at the keys of his study piano, Margo could hear him through the notes as clearly as if he were whispering tenderly in her ear. 

The strange thing was… Margo _knew_ this music. After Eliot’s return from tour, Quentin had set out to write songs. Songs with words, songs with words of _love,_ specifically. 

“Absolute music cannot contain my joy,” Quentin had said one day, sitting upon the piano bench with Margo next to him. “Our love has inspired me, Margo–” He had kissed her then, in the morning sunlight, pulling back to smile at her with bright eyes. “I can’t limit myself to the piano any longer. I must use words to express what is in my heart.”

Song after song had poured from Quentin in the wake of their new love, the love shared between husband and wife and their lover. Quentin found success with them, songs being just as popular as piano pieces at the publisher, but more often than not it was Eliot who sang them, his voice a whisper in their ears as they fell into slumber together in their marriage bed. [ One particular song ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Avevi_mi1TE) became their favorite.

_You my soul, you my heart, you my rapture, o you my pain..._

And now, Eliot played Quentin’s song as if possessed, the [ melody ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-5_jzx1mPLA) soaring in the tenor of the piano, his fingers painting a tableau of rapture around it. It was love, and pain, and adoration, and fear–made clear as day for her. 

“Eliot wrote this for me,” she whispered. It was a message. Eliot was there, and Quentin too. They were only thinking of her. Supporting her, but also trusting her, as she had asked. “They both did.” 

Once Eliot finished his new paraphrase, he began another. An improvisation on Margo’s favorite theme. 

Frau Schiller tutted as she led Margo back to the bed and poured her a cup of strong tea. “That man is going to exhaust himself.” 

Margo had to laugh, though it was a rasping sound. 

_If my wife is going to labor then so shall I_ , she imagined Eliot declaring with great aplomb, brandy warming his blood as he deposited himself at the piano bench.

“He is a fool,” she declared, her heart overflowing with love. “A dreadfully romantic fool.” 

They continued thusly for hours. As the sun set a softer hand replaced her husband’s wild performance. Margo screamed and cried and labored to the sounds of fantasy, Quentin sending their love up through the floorboards. Eliot took another turn, and then Quentin again, until Margo kept the time by the alternation of their music. 

At quarter after three, her child was born to the final strains of Eliot’s first ballade. The piano crashed to a stop as an infant’s cries pierced the air, strong and loud as a full orchestra. Frau Schiller performed her magic, and in moments Margo—bloody and exhausted—was holding her swaddled son in her arms. He was perfect, small and wrinkled and squalling. She saw herself, and Quentin, and of course she saw Eliot, whose love had given him to her. Her son. This was what Margo had been born to do, as it was impressed on her again and again her whole life, but like her marriage she would do it on her own terms. 

“What a singular house you’ve been born into, my darling,” she murmured, her first words to her firstborn, and the baby’s cries settled at once at the sound of her voice. Their eyes met, and Margo was instantly in love. She had always thought herself rather cold-hearted, but perhaps this was a bond that transcended her prickly nature. Her son cooed, and it was a lovely, lyrical sound.

“He’ll be a musician,” she declared, voice little more than gravel after shouting half the night. “With his fathers’ accompaniment to his birth, what else will there be in his heart but music?” 

The next sound to reach her ears was the percussive rhythm of several men running up the stairs. She could hear Quentin and Eliot calling her name.

“Margo? Margo—” 

“Now hold on, gentlemen,” Frau Schiller commanded, stepping into the hall. “Let’s give the lady a moment to collect her dignity, and then you can both come in and meet your son.” 

“...my son?!” Margo felt a frisson of indescribable joy at the sound of her husband’s voice. “A son! Do you all hear? We have a son!”

She and Fen exchanged a fond glance as a round of cheers rose up from outside the doors. It seemed none of the servants had gone to bed. Carefully, Margo allowed Fen to take her son from her arms and set him in his bassinet for a moment, then she delicately assisted her into a fresh nightgown, with a generous padding of linen between her legs to stem the bleeding that Frau Schiller had assured her was normal. Needless to say, Quentin and Eliot would be sleeping in the north bedroom tonight, but first Margo was eager to share her great triumph with them first. Fen folded a clean quilt up over her legs and belly, and then Margo was as presentable as she cared to be. She held her child once more as she called, “Frau Schiller, you can send them in.”

It was only Eliot and Quentin who stepped in, and Margo thought there must have been cathedrals whose steps were graced with less reverence then her two loves gave to her chambers. They were both of them in their shirtsleeves, and smelled a little of brandy and tobacco, but Margo found the sight of them nothing but beautiful.

“My lady…” Quentin actually knelt at her bedside, his eyes round and awestruck as he stared at their son. Margo reached out to squeeze his hand. 

“Remarkable what our handiwork has wrought, isn’t it?” she asked, and he laughed, eyes bright with happy tears. Eliot didn’t waste his time with Quentin’s courtly approach, climbing at once onto the bed on Margo’s other side and encircling her in the safety of his arms. 

“Please, Eliot,” Margo objected as he kissed her hair, a faint tremble still in his limbs that could not only be due to his great exertion at the piano downstairs. “I’m a mess—” 

“No, you’re _beautiful_ ,” Eliot replied with absolute sincerity. Their son wriggled in Margo’s arms with a little mewl, and Eliot was struck silent. Hesitantly, he placed his hand over Margo’s where she cradled him. The baby blinked up at them both, sleepy but curious. 

“This is your papa, little one,” she said, smiling as Eliot’s breath caught. 

“Bambi, I—” 

“Would you like to hold him?” All at once Eliot became shy, hiding his face against Margo’s hair.

“Quentin should hold him first,” he demurred. “After all, his contributions to this dear little project were far more concrete than my own.” 

Margo hummed, but didn’t push. She merely stroked Eliot’s arm before they drew Quentin up so he was sitting on the edge of the bed and put their son in his arms. Cautious of her aching lower half, Margo was still capable of sitting up enough to show him how to support his head in the crook of his elbow, and keep one hand under his bottom. 

“This is your father too,” she whispered, “‘Godfather’ in the truest sense.”

“Don’t let it overwhelm you yet,” Quentin said to the little bundle, a thrilled flush to his cheeks as the baby looked up at him. “We’ll explain it all when you’re older.” 

Margo laughed as she relaxed back against Eliot’s chest. Lord, she was tired, but she hardly even wanted to blink, let alone sleep. Every second was a sight that she couldn’t stand to miss. Beside her, Eliot sighed blissfully, and Margo couldn’t begrudge him the sentiment. Quentin was beautiful with their child in his arms. Even with the swaddling the baby looked so small compared to his lovely square hands, and the tenderness in his gaze made Margo’s throat tighten. _I made the right choice_ , was all that she could think. 

“Almost as good as a wedding ring, wouldn’t you say, my love?” Eliot said, and a sparkling tear dripped down Quentin’s cheek. 

“He’s so much more than that,” he replied, voice soft, as though he were speaking directly to his son. “What will you name him?” 

Margo looked to Eliot, whose eyes were twinkling. 

“My darling,” he said, clasping Quentin’s shoulder. “You tell us.”

Quentin’s eyes went round. “Me?” 

“You are going to christen him,” Margo said, Eliot in perfect agreement at her side. “When you speak his name to God it should be of your own choosing.” 

She and Eliot had conspired to this in secret on the rare occasions they had shared their marriage bed alone in the last year. They had known Quentin would never accept such a gift unless it was sprung upon him. Even now, he opened his mouth to object, but at Margo’s stern look he bit his lip and gave it thought. Eventually he leaned down and pressed his lips to their son’s brow, being terribly gentle. 

“My father’s name was Theodore,” he murmured, eyes wet and smile bright as he looked to them for approval. “He was a good man. Kind, and steadfast.” 

“Theodore,” Eliot repeated. “‘God-given’. A fine name, and more than appropriate considering how we’ve been blessed.” 

“Then it’s decided,” Margo said. “Perhaps we’ll throw in something for the Earl in the middle to appease the nobility, but for now, Theodore. Theodore Waugh.” 

“Theodore Waugh,” Quentin repeated, making no effort to hide his joy at the connection of Eliot’s name to his son. “Though perhaps—I mean, while he’s little—I think ‘Teddy’ is very sweet.” 

“Of course, dear. Anything you like.” 

Quentin laughed, then looked down at their son as if for the first time. 

“Hello, Teddy,” he said. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Margo felt her eyelids drooping despite her best efforts as Teddy gurgled his approval of their choice. 

“Are you alright, Bambi?” Eliot murmured to her. 

“I’m wonderful,” she replied, sagging against Eliot’s shoulder. “Though I think I might rest my eyes for just a few minutes.” She yawned, wincing at the twinge it sent through her sore abdominal muscles. “Call for Frau Schiller if you want to put him down.” 

“I should think it might be _days_ before I feel such an urge…” was the last thing Margo heard before she nodded off for a well deserved nap. 

She couldn’t say how long she dozed, only that when she blinked back to a state of half wakefulness it was still dark out, and that the lamps in her room had been extinguished in favor of the light of a few sparse candles. Margo was laid against her down pillows, and her coverlet tucked up to her chin, but she was not alone. She could hear, just perched at the end of the bed, Quentin’s low murmuring and Eliot’s even softer replies. 

“...just set your elbow here, darling, keep his head up…” 

“Perhaps I should wait, Q. What if I drop him?” 

“You won’t drop him.” 

“I might, and then he’ll resent me, I know it.” 

Margo contained a smile as she heard Quentin’s soft chuckle. Neither man had noticed she was awake and she didn’t want to interrupt such a tender scene. She cracked one eye just enough to see Quentin step back and reveal Eliot holding little Teddy, anxiety and devotion warring equally on his expression. Margo felt a desperate twinge of love as she took in the image. Eliot was so _handsome_ , tall and and delicate and washed in dim golden light, his gaze on their son unbearably tender even in his fretting.

“What do I say?” 

“He’s a baby, El, and dead asleep. You don’t have to say anything.” 

“Oh.” Eliot touched a delicate finger to the bow of Teddy’s little mouth. “He looks like you.” 

Quentin laughed again, perhaps a little less easy. “Well, I imagine that was bound to happen.” 

Eliot’s next breath was tremulous, and Margo heard Quentin gasp. 

“Eliot, are you alright?” 

“I—yes.” Eliot’s voice was rough with tears, Margo realized. “I think—that is, I mean to say—I think I love him. I think I love him more than I have ever loved anything in this world. More than my own life, even.”

“Oh, El—” 

Quentin sighed sweetly, and slipped his arms around Eliot’s waist with Teddy tucked between them. He pressed their brows together, so that Eliot’s face was blocked from Margo’s sight when he confessed, “I was so afraid I wouldn’t.”

Her husband’s brittle words made Margo’s heart ache, and she was grateful for Quentin’s ability to comfort him, especially when he continued. 

“I didn’t want to father children. Or at least, I was afraid.” 

“When you were first married,” Quentin guessed, stroking his lover’s jaw. 

“Yes.” Eliot replied. “I wanted Margo to have everything. Anything she desired. And she spoke such poetry, that I allowed myself to imagine...but still I was fearful.”

“Why, darling?” Quentin’s voice was painfully earnest. “It—it isn’t my place—but you and Margo. They would have been beautiful.” 

“Perhaps.” There was a trace of wistfulness to Eliot’s expression. “But even with my dearest friend, my most beloved, I feared that resentment would root itself in my heart.”

“Because you didn’t have a choice?” 

Eliot shook his head. “Because a child would be proof of the charade. Proof that my nature must be hidden to survive. How could I be anything but cold to such a child?”

“Eliot…”

In the flickering candlelight Margo could make out the trace of tear tracks on Eliot’s cheeks as he bounced Teddy lightly in his arms.

“And—and a man who couldn’t love his children?” he whispered. “Because of their core being, through no fault of their own? I would be no different than my father.” 

Quentin’s reply was swift and emphatic. “You are _nothing_ like your father.”

“I know,” Eliot promised. “I’ll never doubt again, after today.” 

Eliot sniffled again, and Quentin swept the droplets from his cheeks where they fell.

“It’s alright,” Eliot assured him, smiling through his tears. “Q, I’m not afraid. There is nothing but joy in my heart, because when I look at Teddy I see _you_. You and Margo, my two great loves, you’ve given me a son. What could be less false than this little one? What better proof could I ask of our devotion to one another?”

Quentin laughed, soft. The sound was less from humor and more from awed disbelief. Margo closed her eyes as their lips met in a tender kiss. So much was shared between the three of them, but it was a moment meant for the two of them alone when Quentin murmured “ _Mein herz_ , I love you so.” 

“As I love you, darling.” 

The simple act of closing her eyes reminded Margo of how exhausted she still was. The siren call of slumber luring her back into darkness, she tucked the image of her husband and her lover bathed in the glow of warm candlelight away in her heart, her precious son held between them. In the morning she would hold him again, but for now Teddy was safe with his fathers.

Margo fell asleep to the low tones of murmured conversation. 

“Q, don’t tell our lady? She doesn’t need to know of my silly worries.” 

“I won’t. But I imagine she might like to hear them from your lips someday.” 

“Yes. ...Someday.” 

A yawn. “It’s late. Should we go to bed?” 

“...I think I’d like to hold him still. Just for a few more minutes.” 

“Of course, El. As long as you like.”

* * *

It was in the summer after Teddy was born that Eliot and Margo asked Quentin to marry them. 

“What?” Quentin asked, laughing as they lay in bed, tangled in each other and the sheets. He was still relaxed and open from Eliot’s lovemaking, and clung to him with greedy hands, Margo behind him pressing kisses to the back of his neck. 

It was a situation that often robbed him of his coherency. 

“We wish to marry you,” Margo said, her voice hoarse from their passions. “Do you accept?”

Eliot giggled, smoothing Quentin’s hair back from his forehead. 

“He’s shocked, Bambi, you must use more tender turns of phrase when he is like this.”

Margo slung a leg over Quentin’s hip, urging him onto his back. She kissed him on his slack mouth, and he sighed against her lips, resting one of his hands on her belly. Just months ago she had been carrying his child— _their_ child—and now... 

“I want to call myself your wife,” Margo whispered against his lips. “Though it can only be in our own company, I wish to say the words aloud so that God can hear them.”

Eliot smoothed a hand over Quentin’s chest, pressing closer so that Quentin was surrounded by them. The room was thick with the scent of their lovemaking. It overwhelmed him, just as Margo’s words set his heart to racing. 

“I can be your husband, as well as your lover,” Eliot said. “We need only speak it for it to be so.”

“But– how–”

“Leave the matter of ceremony to us,” Eliot interrupted with a finger to his lips. “Your only duty is to accept our proposal.”

Margo climbed atop him, rubbing her still-wet center against his spent cock. He gasped, pulling her close and skimming his hands over her hips. Eliot kissed him, pulling his face toward him with a hand under his chin.

They asked for an acceptance from him, but he had no poetry to offer in reply. The only words he could manage were gasping, ecstasy-filled– 

“Yes– yes– make me _yours._ ”

They did. 

It was unlike any fantasy of a wedding Quentin had ever thought to indulge in. Margo’s skirts were peach chintz with flowers and fruit embroidered at her throat and wrists, and Eliot complimented her in a swiss dotted green waistcoat. Tucked between them in his own Sunday finery—his waistcoat faun-brown—as they left the city behind, Quentin felt they might have been on their way to the Garden of Paradise itself. They took a sojourn beyond Vienna to stand, the three of them, in a sunlit glade where they might be alone but for the blessed cathedral of nature. There they clasped hands messily and repeated the same words Eliot and Margo had spoken before a priest on their wedding day. 

Quentin’s voice was clear and true and free from its stutter. He vowed to take them both as his husband and wife, to cherish in sickness and in health. To have and to hold. 

To honor and obey.

In the dappled morning light they slipped rings on both of Quentin’s ring fingers, Eliot’s smooth and golden and Margo’s set with a small diamond that resembled her own engagement ring. Both were engraved with the same words:

_For our dearest love._

After, they drank and ate the picnic lunch Frau Schiller had packed them, trading champagne tinged kisses and laughing like newlyweds, which, Quentin supposed, they were. Before they left the paradise nature had granted them, Eliot gifted him a chain to wear the rings upon, lovingly tucking it beneath his shirt to rest at his heart. The metal grew warm against his chest as they walked back to the carriage, and Quentin was comforted by the constant reminder they would provide. He had found love, and was loved in return, but even more importantly, his loves wanted him _forever_. 

Frau Schiller and the rest of their staff greeted their return with a three-tiered cake with thick white icing and garnished with spring flowers. They convened informally in the servant’s small hall, the bonds of propriety temporarily forgotten as they shared cake with the only people in their lives that could know their greatest joy. 

“I said it myself in this very kitchen, just a few months after Herr Coldwater came to Vienna,” Frau Schiller said, brandishing a glass of her sherry. “It was so _good_ to see Herr Waugh settled, and now look at you all! Beautiful, just a beautiful family.”

Margo kissed Quentin’s cheek and they toasted to Frau Schiller’s words. Quentin watched as Todd and Eliot exchanged a fraternal handshake and embrace, the happiness on Eliot’s old friend’s face full and genuine. They had built a family here, all by their own design. 

The nanny came by shortly after, a smiling Teddy on her hip, eleven months old almost to the day. 

“Give me my son!” Eliot joyfully took him into his arms, raining kisses down on the infant’s smiling face. “Your parents are married on this day, can you believe our good fortune?”

“Eliot…” Quentin cautioned, though his heart was full to bursting, too full for a true scolding. 

“Your godfather thinks me too cavalier,” Eliot whispered in Teddy’s ear. “Would you like to speak to him yourself?”

Teddy babbled his assent, and then was set in Quentin’s lap. Quentin marveled at how in a few short months of life Teddy had learned to laugh, to smile, to hold his own head up and survey the room with a piercing gaze. He already had a small mop of hair on his head, dark brown and curled tight like Margo, but his eyes were small and dark. 

“He’s going to be your spitting image,” Margo said quietly in Quentin’s ear. 

Quentin swallowed hard. The emotions of the day had been heady and intoxicating, but this moment–his wife at his side and his husband smiling and laughing with pride, his son in his lap–his feet had never felt more firmly attached to the earth. 

Teddy laughed and commanded the attention of the room, his babbling closer and closer to true speech by the day. Quentin had foregone his cravat, and in one moment Teddy seized upon the chain around his neck, as infants are wont to do. He managed to pull the rings free, and Quentin watched with tears in his eyes as Teddy gurgled at the sparkling gold bands with wonder. 

“What I wouldn’t give for a portrait of this moment.” 

Eliot’s hand settled on the back of his neck, and Quentin grasped at him, wordless in his joy. He only released his hand in order to rescue his wedding rings from Teddy’s curious mouth. _That_ was not an adventure that this day required.

The celebrations went on, but soon there were chores to be done and dishes to be cleaned, and the newlyweds took their leave of the servants hall to put Teddy to bed. 

That evening the happy trio consummated their vows. Quentin made love to his wife and husband, letting the words pass his lips far more than was strictly necessary. 

“My wife– my beautiful _wife–”_

And then:

“My love, my _husband,_ come kiss me–”

Quentin relished the words, these sacred titles that they had forged for themselves. Margo had him first, her sex velvet around him as he fucked into her, every thrust punctuated by her sweet moans, low and satisfied in her throat as he stroked where she was most sensitive.

“Here— please—“ she gasped, grasping the chain where his rings hung and pulling him down to kiss her lips. His thrusts stuttered as she licked into his mouth. 

He laughed against her lips. “What a convenient hand-hold for you.”

Eliot came up behind him, kissing under his ear. “Margo and I both know you can’t resist a firm grip, my love.”

As if in response, Margo tightened her hold on the chain around his neck, the symbol of their devotion, and Quentin came, burying himself deep inside of her. 

“My lady,” he exhaled. “My lady _wife_.” 

So overcome as he had been with the day and their vows, Quentin had known he wouldn’t last. But underneath him, Margo still panted with need. Her pupils were blown wide, dark and still edged with desire. Eliot laid beside them once Quentin had drawn himself from her to stroke at her center, aiming to tip her over the edge. She received his touch for a moment, but then stilled his hand, pushing Quentin back and slinging her leg over Eliot’s hips. 

“My husband,” she murmured in his lap, pulling Eliot’s head up to press their brows together. “ _Our_ husband.” 

Holding Margo tenderly, Eliot drew his fingers through her folds, his own arousal standing proud between his legs. Eliot’s fingers came away wet with Quentin’s spend, and his breath caught to see his husband’s eyes dark with desire. The moment was thick with words unspoken, and Quentin felt privileged to witness it. Eliot and Margo gazed deeply into each other’s eyes, her question silent but all the more important. Eliot nodded, pulling her close as she lowered herself down onto him. 

“Oh,” Eliot breathed, his hands roaming her body, settling on her hips once she was fully seated. _“Margo.”_

Quentin could only watch, hypnotized, as his husband and wife made love, his own spend easing the way between them. Eliot’s long arms wound around her back, his face buried in the space between her neck and shoulder. Margo’s soft thighs hugged Eliot’s slim hips as they were joined, riding him to seek her pleasure, her hair a sea of curls down her back.

Eliot and Margo’s lovemaking was a complicated subject, rife with the disappointment from their attempts to conceive early in their marriage, and their own unspoken uncertainties as to which intimacies could be freely shared between them and which would be stained by the spectre of obligation. They had confessed to him separately that they hadn’t known one another in this way since the first year of their marriage.

But now...

But now, Quentin thought as he watched them, with their healthy child sleeping in the nursery and the bond forged between the three of them made real by the rings resting at his chest, there was no reason for such inhibitions. It was no sense of obligation that brought forth the moans that spilled from Eliot’s throat, or the quaking in Margo’s thighs as she was brought to yet another precipice. This was their marriage bed, where the touches between two men and their wife would only ever be born out of love, out of the simple desire to know one another in every tender manner possible. 

Seeing Eliot and Margo become undone, surrendering to the love between them all, Quentin found himself overcome with heat. 

“I want to see it,” he said, voice hoarse from their earlier pleasures. He knelt up, sweeping Margo’s hair back from her face as she rode. “Please, my loves–I want to watch as you–”

Eliot moaned at the breathless thought, and with one arm firm around her back, he tipped Margo back onto the bed so that he loomed over her. Truly a goddess divine, she sighed her pleasure and rested her hands above her head, her fingers knitting in the bedclothes as Eliot entered her again. 

Quentin stole a kiss from Eliot as he rearranged himself above her. He marveled at how different it was to watch Eliot make love to another, to see his passion from this point of view. He held Margo fast, making smart use of his fingers at her clit. She met each of his thrusts with a roll of her hips, eyes locked on where they were joined. 

Quentin’s mouth found new purpose when Margo grasped the back of his neck, guiding it to her breasts. He moaned and sucked with just the barest hint of teeth, his hand finding the peak of her other nipple as Eliot spread her thighs just wider, just enough that when he ground against her on his next thrust, Margo came apart once more, screaming her pleasure. 

“Eliot, my husband, my _sweet_ man,” she cried, her words little more than breath towards the end. 

With one last roll of his hips, Eliot spent inside of her, one hand braced beside her head and the other threaded between her dark curls. He held her so completely, so preciously as he shook through his orgasm, it was as if she were the dearest one in the world to him. 

Quentin’s heart swelled as he realized that she was. 

Eliot collapsed beside her, breath ragged and eyes closed. Quentin, hunger settling in his very bones, crawled between Margo’s legs to take his place. 

“My lady–my wife–” he begged, the words a holy benediction. He ran his hands over her hips, over her sex where Eliot had just spilled inside of her. He breathed his plea against the softness of her belly. “Margo, please, let me taste you, allow me...”

The moment Margo gave her assent Quentin dragged her to him by the thighs, latching his mouth to her center and licking deep. It was base, wild, but he needed to taste her and Eliot— _all three of them together_. She twitched against his mouth, oversensitive, but grasped his hair and dug her heels against his back. 

He imagined how it must feel, to be brought to the heights of pleasure repeatedly in such a short span of time. To surrender all control to the feeling of a warm mouth and grasping hands. 

He smiled against her. He knew such a feeling. 

A broad hand cupped the back of his head, and Quentin looked up to find Eliot’s eyes were locked on him as he committed to his task, lazy but hungry. It spurred him on, encouraged the suction of his mouth and the quickness of his two fingers slipped inside Margo’s cunt to wring another wave of pleasure from her. She arched off the bed, thighs tight around his head, a low moan drawn from her like water from a well. 

She batted him away, finally sated. And only as he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand did Quentin realize that while he had served between Margo’s thighs Eliot had become aroused once more. He hissed as Eliot’s fingers wound tight in his hair, urging him up the bed to drag their lips together.

Eliot kissed him open mouthed and grasping, as if he couldn’t get deep enough, couldn’t ever know him completely. He kissed the taste of Margo from his mouth, kissed him and held him hard until he drew back suddenly, one hand still fisted in Quentin’s hair.

“On your back,” Eliot ordered him, “I will have my husband tonight as well as my wife.”

It was the first time he had referred to Quentin as such in their bed, and with a thrill he hurried to obey his spouse.

 _Perhaps I am dead,_ Quentin mused as Eliot found the oil and Margo looked on in stunned exhausted pleasure, _Perhaps I have died of some fever and this is Paradise._

Yet, as Eliot slicked him with his fingers, Quentin could not deny that this was real. He had given himself in marriage, and now he would receive. 

Once satisfied, Eliot urged him onto his belly. He covered him with his body and took him. Quentin was helpless but to submit to the joy of being filled. It was his most beloved position. Eliot was so tall, his hands so strong and warm on his belly and thighs as he pressed him into the bed and gave him his cock. Quentin gasped into the pillow, held safe and split open in equal measure.

“Oh—oh _god, Eliot—“_

“Shh, shh, I know.” 

His husband soothed him, his hand skimming up his chest to smooth possessively over Quentin’s throat, and then he fucked him. It seemed to last a lifetime, the drag and push of Eliot's cock steady and overwhelming, until Quentin was at the edge of sense, all poetry stolen from his tongue and tears pricking at his eyes. 

“Look at him, Eliot,” he could barely hear Margo murmur beside them. “Look at how lovely he is for you. How much he _needs_.” 

“He’ll never go without again,” Eliot vowed, his voice a rumble in Quentin’s ear. “My sweet spouse, I’m going to take care of you forever.”

Quentin cried out, Eliot’s words striking his heart as his cock struck that tender spot within him that stole his breath away.

“I—El—” Quentin stammered, aching with pleasure as they rocked together. He was so _so_ full. 

“Shh, Q,” Eliot murmured, his breath coming harsh with the rhythm of his hard thrusts. “Tell me.” 

“No other—” Quentin clenched his jaw, on the very cusp of spending, but he felt the words bubbling up like the pleasure swirling in his blood. 

“No other god before thee,” he gasped. He grasped behind him for the back of Eliot’s neck, pulling their bodies as close as they could be as he reached his climax. “My—oh Christ—my _lord and master_.” 

“Fuck, _fuck_ , Quentin—”

Eliot came inside him with a harsh thrust, his face buried in the crook of Quentin’s shoulder. He squeezed a hand beneath their bellies to cup Quentin’s cock, but he was already shivering and oversensitive, having come untouched moments before. He settled for petting over his belly and chest instead as Quentin caught his breath back. He couldn’t help but shiver as Margo began to stroke his hair, the affection from husband and wife feeling hot and possessive in a way he couldn’t describe. He only knew he loved the feeling of being claimed. Of belonging only to them.

“Oh, we have chosen a wicked man indeed to make our own,” Margo declared, eyes hooded. It was as if she could read the carnal desires winding lazily through Quentin’s mind. 

“Indeed, Bambi,” Eliot agreed, voice hoarse, “We certainly have.” 

Margo welcomed Quentin’s head onto her bosom, kissing him through the ache as Eliot pulled out of his well used body. He kissed absently at her breasts, but lethargy slowed his movements until he was only breathing in her arms, hyper aware of their chests heaving, the ticking of the clock on the mantel, and of where he and Margo both were open and wet with their husband’s passion. Eliot tucked himself in against Quentin’s back, still sweat and come sticky with his cock soft against his thigh, and Quentin’s bliss was complete. 

“God knew me in the womb,” he breathed, exhaustion pulling the words to his tongue. “He made me for you.” 

“Quentin,” Eliot murmured, awed as always by the depth of Quentin’s love, “ _Yes_ , darling.”

“Our husband,” Margo said simply.

Quentin fell into slumber with the sound of that beautiful truth in his ears.

A month later when Margo informed them that they would be fathers once again, they knew in their hearts that the pregnancy had been the fruit of their nuptials. Lovely little Clara was born the following winter, and it felt as though God himself had blessed their union.

* * *

Teddy was four years old, and giving his first teatime concert, when Eliot received an unexpected letter. 

It was a captive audience in the sitting room, with Eliot, Margo, and Clara—nearly two already— bouncing on Margo’s lap. Teddy was sat at the piano bench on top of two of Eliot’s thick encyclopaedias and Quentin beside him, alight with pride as Teddy carefully picked out a simple folk song that Quentin had arranged specially for the occasion. 

(“He wants to play Hungarian music, like his papa,” Quentin confided to him in bed the week before, his voice so full of love that it nearly brought Eliot to tears.) 

They had just applauded the first movement—all of thirty seconds long and utterly _wonderful_ , Teddy was going to be playing packed houses before long, Eliot was certain—when Todd tapped Eliot on the shoulder. 

“Pardon me, sir, but there’s been a letter for you.” 

“Come now, Todd,” Eliot said, still beaming over his cup and saucer. “Surely it can wait until intermission.” 

Eliot’s grin died when he looked up and saw Todd’s solemn expression as he held out a thin and carefully folded note. 

“I think you’ll wish to read it at once, sir.” 

Eliot took in the address, the handwriting, the _spelling of his name_. A strange rushing sound filled his ears.

 _Éliás Waugh_.

“Eliot?” 

Quentin was staring at him from the piano, and Teddy with him, identical expressions of concern writ across their dear faces. Eliot realized he was clutching the letter in a white knuckled grip, his cup and saucer at his feet and his tea soaking into the Persian rug. 

“Darling, is everything alright?” Margo’s hand was gentle on his forearm. Eliot must have looked terribly stricken. 

“I…” Eliot unfolded the letter and scanned the first few lines. He took in their meaning, his heart thudding in his ears and his hand trembling. 

Then he pasted a smile on his face, folded the letter and tucked it away in his pocket. 

“Of course, all is well,” he said, looking only at his son. Margo and Quentin would not be so easily fooled. “Todd, would you bring something to mop up this tea? Clumsy of me. I do apologize Teddy, please continue.”

Margo squeezed his wrist as Teddy began his second song, a question behind her eyes. Eliot leaned over to whisper in her ear as Quentin guided Teddy through a jaunty schoolyard tune. 

“It’s from my sister,” Eliot said, never letting the proud smile slip. “My father is dead.”

Margo held his hand, but he said no more, applauding his son and playing with his daughter on the carpet when he was finished. Margo and Quentin exchanged worried glances throughout dinner, but no one spoke any more about the letter in Eliot’s pocket. Quentin disappeared into the study after dinner, his newest work due tomorrow to the publisher, and Margo tried to tempt Eliot into a game of cards.

“Maybe tomorrow, my love,” he said, kissing her cheek. “I think I need a moment to myself.”

His wife nodded understandingly, following Quentin to the study where they would no doubt hash out their mutual worry over Eliot’s newest correspondence and Quentin would accomplish very little in the way of composition.

 _As is their right,_ he thought as he mounted the stairs and entered his dressing room. That he had not only one love to worry for him but _two_ still astounded him.

But as he loosened his cravat and sat on his narrow bed, the warmth from his spouses concern faded, replaced by the anxiety that fluttered in his gut when he pulled his sister’s letter from his pocket.

Her words were kind but stilted, her prose clumsy. _Father is gone, taken by a sickness of the heart,_ she said. _Mother is getting older. She wants to see you._

Eliot looked up as Todd entered the room, one of Eliot’s freshly pressed jackets over his arm. Eliot folded the letter in his lap. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, sir,” Todd said. “I didn’t see you come up. Will you be going to bed early?”

Eliot sighed, starting to unbutton his cufflinks. “Perhaps that would be best.”

Eliot handed Todd the little fasteners, and then it was the familiar ritual that he and Todd had practiced for years. A jacket brushed and rehung, a waistcoat buttoned and set in a drawer, and a shirt to be washed and pressed. Eliot was in his robe and Todd about to take his leave when he remembered the letter he had set upon the night table. 

“Todd?”

Todd turned, his expression open. “Yes, sir?”

“It’s nothing, except–” Eliot sighed, running his teeth over his bottom lip, thinking. He cleared his throat once more, switching his language from German to Hungarian. “What would you do– if you were in my place? And don’t pretend as if the whole house doesn’t know of the letter by now.”

Todd pursed his lips, knowing what the change from their formal tongue to the language of their childhood meant to Eliot. How it brought them back to the years before they had been employee and employer. He lowered Eliot’s clothes to the bureau, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe, as if waiting for Eliot to say more. 

Eliot shook his head, reaching out to hand him the letter. 

“Here,” he said, turning away as Todd took it. “You might as well. You’re the only person in the house who can read it. Besides me.”

Todd frowned as he read the letter. Eliot could sympathize. It was one thing to speak a Magyar phrase once in a while, to speak as equals, but to read the words in the ink brought them both back to a different time. When they were different men. 

He finished within a few minutes, returning the letter to Eliot. 

“She seems sincere,” Todd began, words careful. 

“I suppose.” Eliot picked at a thread on his quilt. “She’s no poet, that’s for sure. But I suppose toiling on your husband’s farm leaves little time to practice such genteel arts.”

Eliot immediately regretted his cold words, and the snobbish tone that now echoed in his ears. His sister had learned to read and write when he was very young, each and every letter and word a victory over their tyrannical father. If he thought hard enough he could see the frizz of her hair in the candlelight of their tiny house, the way her eyes had squinted to decipher the old reader that had been someone else’s trash. Everyone had thought that it would be Szonja to leave their harsh life, perhaps get a job as a domestic servant. But at eighteen she had married a kind boy her own age that had just inherited a small farm, and left their home for a very similar life. 

Todd didn’t seem to notice Eliot’s unkindness, and came to sit beside him. 

“She speaks of letters you wrote, years ago. It’s a late answer, to be sure, but surely late is better than never?” He nudged Eliot’s knee. “I believe it was a good friend of mine who told me, years ago, that he would give anything for his mother to ask for him.”

“Your friend is very foolish.”

Todd laughed once. “I don’t think so. And besides, what harm can an old woman do you now? When you have made such a wonderful life for yourself?”

Eliot thought on it as the seconds of silence ticked by. Todd meant to be sensible, to appeal to whatever little pragmatism Eliot possessed. But as the question settled in his mind, Eliot felt only the slide of icy dread in his stomach. He could only think of his final visit home—Eliot still a boy of eighteen—and the hatred in his father’s eyes as he spat a curse at him meant to shame him for his nature. How his mother had looked away, tears in her eyes as she said nothing. If she came, would she bring his father’s ghost? Would Eliot be subjecting his children to the risks of a stranger in their home who was ready to hate him?

“I fear the answer to such a query is not a happy one, my friend.” 

Despite his reservations, Eliot made his decision once Todd had retired for the night. 

He entered Margo’s room quietly, still in his robe and ready to face Margo’s anger, her impending disgust at Eliot’s weakness where his family was concerned. Instead, he found his husband and wife in bed together, Margo in her nightgown and braid and Quentin in ought but his drawers, sitting on the bed and clearly having a serious conversation. 

“Eliot,” Quentin said, standing to embrace him. “Margo told me about the letter, about your father, my love I’m so sorry–”

Eliot wrapped his arms around him in turn, burying his nose in his hair. Margo came to stand beside them, rubbing a hand on Eliot’s back. 

“We’ve been so worried,” she whispered, leaning her forehead against his arm. “That you wouldn’t allow us to assist you through this.”

Eliot stepped back, and they settled, all three of them on the bed. 

“My sister says my mother wishes to see me,” he said slowly, squeezing both their hands. “And I wish for it as well. To see both of them.”

Margo pursed her lips. “Are you sure? These are the people that turned you from your home. The reason you fell upon such hard times as a young man.”

Eliot nodded. “Yes. It’s true. But my father is gone, and he was the one who controlled that house. If I...if I could have even one conversation with the woman who gave me life, to hear from her own lips whether I could be a son to her again...I think I’m willing to take the risk.”

Quentin nodded. “Then you should. She should see the life you’ve built for yourself.”

“ _We_ built it, together, and she should see that too,” Eliot said. Then he grimaced. “Or at least, what we can show her that she could understand.” 

Margo frowned at that, and Quentin’s eyes were sad but he smiled as he kissed Eliot and said, “I know.”

So within the hour, it was decided. Eliot held his head in his hands, Quentin’s soft reassurance in his ear, and Margo sat down at her writing desk to pen a letter in return to Eliot’s sister, formally inviting her and Eliot’s mother to Vienna for a visit. Eliot enclosed a Hungarian translation, and two weeks later, their answer came. 

Eszter and Eliot’s sister Szonja arrived as soon as the spring roads dried, carrying only two small carpet bags between them. His mother’s curls were silver now instead of brown, her back slightly bowed with age. His sister Szonja was approaching forty-five, but the wrinkles around her eyes suggested that she had endured trials beyond her years. 

Eliot peered into the hall from the parlor as Todd helped them through the front door, carrying their bags for them and giving soft directions in Hungarian. 

“Just through here, Madams, they are expecting you.”

Eliot bit his lip, wringing his hands. Always the exemplary hostess, Margo squeezed his hand before breezing into the hall. 

“Time for the show, darling.”

Eliot followed hesitantly, wishing he could hide in his wife’s much smaller shadow. 

“Welcome to Vienna!” Margo said kindly in very well-practiced Magyar. Todd had tutored her in the afternoons to help her prepare for their visit. “We hope your travels have been pleasant?”

Szonja and Eszter glanced nervously around the entryway. Eliot saw his home as he hadn’t ever before– its high ceilings, its staircase with the polished mahogany banister, the paintings on the walls that he and Margo had commissioned personally. He saw it through the eyes of his mother and sister, thinking only of the drafty house outside of Pest where he and his four brothers had slept in two beds with only a sheet separating the rooms. 

His sister stepped forward first, dipping a small and wobbly curtsy towards Margo. 

“We are so honored to be invited to your home, my lady,” Szonja said in heavily accented German, and with a pang in his chest Eliot realized that Margo hadn’t been the only one to practice a new language to prepare for the visit. “Thank you for your kind invitation.”

Eliot should say something, this was _his_ family after all. He should put them at ease, make them feel at home, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. 

Lucky for him, he had Margo. 

She stepped forward, taking Szonja’s hands warmly. 

“The honor is ours. We’re family, sister.”

Even in Margo’s shaky hungarian, Szonja understood. She allowed Margo to lead her into the parlor, Todd following behind as a willing translator for the visit. That left Eliot very much alone in the hallway with his mother, her gaze having been on him the entire time Margo and Szonja had spoken. 

Eliot had no idea what to say, but as it turned out, he needn’t speak at all. 

His mother stepped forward, reaching a hand up to rest upon his face. He swallowed hard, but relaxed at the touch. Her hands were wrinkled and worn with age, but he remembered his mother’s hands. 

“You grew even more,” she said, her voice reedier than he remembered. “Since we last saw each other.”

Eliot laughed, the first sound he had made since their arrival. 

“Come now, Elias,” she continued, stroking a thumb through where a tear fell from his eye. “There’s no need for that.”

Eliot nodded, taking her hand in his to guide her into the parlor, following behind Margo. 

“I’m much changed, Mama,” he said quietly. “But I’m so glad you’re here.”

With Eliot and Todd to act as translators for Margo, their visitors began to settle into daily life in the Waugh household. Szonja and Margo were perfectly civil, as Margo could find common ground with anyone. Of course, all awkward silences could be remedied with one simple request. 

“Shall we have the children brought in?”

And it was perfect, was it not? Teddy had just reached the age where he could synthesize a frantic yet charming childlike conversation, didn’t seem to mind that his new Grandmother didn’t speak a word of German, as most of his conversations were one-sided to begin with. His antics brought much laughter to their visits. 

His mother was enchanted by both of the children, but it was plain that Clara had stolen her heart most of all. Perhaps it was because she was still so little, mostly a babe at two years old. When she napped in the afternoon Eszter loved to sit beside her cradle with her knitting, humming little snatches of Magyar lullabies Eliot remembered from the hazy warmth of his early childhood.

“You used to sing that to me,” he said one afternoon, leaning against the door to the nursery. Eszter sighed as she reached out to stroke an errant curl back from Clara’s brow. 

“I don’t know why I ever stopped.” 

“Because it was unfitting for a boy of my age to be sung lullabies.” Eliot couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice. 

“No one is too old for music,” his mother replied. “Certainly you have proven that.” 

Eliot crosses the room, looking over his mother’s shoulder at his sleeping daughter. 

“Do you sing to her, Éliás?” Eszter asked. “Do you remember the words?” 

Eliot’s eyes burned, but he said, “Of course, Mama.” 

She smiled, and began to sing again, idly rocking Clara’s bassinet. Clearing his throat, Eliot joined her, the soft sing-song of the Hungarian lullaby soothing to even his aging soul. 

His mother squeezed his hand when it was finished, and they watched Clara slumber in peace and safety.

“I’m sorry I was weak,” Eszter said at last, her voice little more than a whisper. Eliot kissed his mother’s hand. “I’m sorry I allowed you to be treated in such a way.”

“I’m sorry he was cruel,” he said in reply.

There was no need to clarify who they spoke of. 

“Éliás,” his mother started once more. “I’m getting old. I don’t know how many times I can make this journey, and I want us to have… I want to know that my son forgives me, as selfish a request as it may be.”

Eliot squeezed her hand, wondering how he had ever worried that his mother could be of harm to his children. 

“You will visit often, I’ll make sure of it.”

She smiled, humoring him, but the exchange lit a fire in Eliot’s mind. 

Three days later, Szonja found him in the study, furiously writing letter after letter. His sister had grown comfortable in their home, but still walked through it as if it were a museum. Eliot’s study, with its lower ceilings and more modest furnishings, was more to her comfort. 

“What are you doing?” She asked when he didn’t look up from his work. 

“I’m making arrangements for you and mama to live in Vienna.” He dipped his pen in the pot once more and continued to write. “I’m not the eldest son, but I seem to be the only one willing to take some responsibility for you both.”

“Responsibility?” His sister asked, her voice colored with confusion. 

“Yes, responsibility,” he confirmed. “Mama should not have to live in that run down old house where Father made her miserable.”

“Mama loves her house.”

Eliot scoffed, signing off on one letter to a landlord he knew in the city. 

“She will love being here, with more comforts, and so will you.”

“But—Eliot, you must know that this is impossible. Our whole lives are in Hungary, my children—my husband.”

“They will be better off here,” he insisted, looking up frustratedly. “Your children can be educated, I would make all the arrangements, and I will find a situation for Jozsef. I know he studied with father for a time, and there’s plenty of work for a mason in a growing city such as this.”

Szonja sat up, a prideful anger in her eyes. 

“Jozsef is a farmer. I know it’s not much, but he owns his land. He would never pay a lease to another man in the city.”

“Your husband is a good man, but…” Eliot shook his head. “I know the soil is full of stones. At least a mason could find work–”

“So you want my husband to be like our father?”

“Are you implying that all masons are drunks and child beaters?”

“Would you _stop_?” She stomped her foot, like she had when Eliot had been exasperating as a young boy. “You wish for my family to be dependent on you, on your money, your reputation, your contacts, as Father was beholden to the nobles who owned his land.”

“As if I would hold such a gauche thing as money over you. I want to _help,_ not make you my slaves.”

Szonja took a deep breath, sighing. “We can’t change the past.”

“What on Earth does this have to do with the past? I’m trying to look towards the future–”

“Eliot,” she interrupted, holding up a hand. “You’re a good father. A good man. And you have made a beautiful life for yourself here. But bringing us here will not fix what has already happened. You’re not our father, and you don’t have to atone for his sins.”

Eliot sat back in his chair, any response he had dying on his tongue. 

“You know in your heart that we don’t belong here,” she continued, voice kind. “That doesn’t mean we can’t still love each other. To see your family, and know your children, it has meant everything to Mama. To me as well.”

And so Eliot set down his crusade to fund the entire Waugh clan’s move to Vienna, and as time stretched out, he could see his foolishness. He could see it in the way Quentin expertly played the part of a bachelor boarder while his mother and sister visited, only eating dinner with them and spending more time at the cafe or shut up in the study to work. His heart broke to see Quentin distance himself from their day to day life, not wanting his resemblance with Teddy to spoil Eliot’s time with his family. But soon Eliot found that he missed _his_ family, and the truth of its existence.

“Eliot–” Quentin cautioned as Eliot pinned him up against the wall of the north bedroom, stealing the first kiss from him he had gotten in nearly a week. “Don’t be foolish, your mother’s bedroom is right next door–”

“My husband needs me, and that is more important than any discretion.” He nipped at Quentin’s neck, and then leaned their foreheads together. “Or rather, I need my husband.”

Quentin sighed, gripping Eliot’s jacket at his waist until the fabric bunched between his fingers, clinging just as strongly despite his reservations concerning safety. 

“Of course I need you, Eliot. I’d taken for granted how nice it was to not keep staunch secrets in our own house.” Quentin smiled, a wry twist to it. “I feel as if we are new lovers again, hiding in my apartment in Leipzig.”

“Never.” Eliot kissed him again. “This is only temporary, and then we shall have our paradise once more.”

Quentin nodded, and they kissed more against the door, until they were breathless. 

“Sit with us during tea tomorrow, with my family,” Eliot breathed. “It’s their last day here, and you are part of this household, whatever the real truth may be.”

After more cajoling and a few more kisses, Quentin agreed to be present the following day for tea. He fiddled with his necktie and his numb finger the entire time, gaze flicking to Eliot quickly and then darting away as Todd and Franz served them tea and cake in the parlor. Margo kept the conversation light and gay, but something lingered in the air. 

They could explain Quentin’s presence as much as they could, but the specter of Eliot’s last meeting with his father hung heavy in the air. Words that could never be unheard, especially when spoken from father to son. 

The children were brought in after the tea service had been taken away, and Teddy played one of Quentin’s compositions on the piano to a round of applause. Teddy ran to his Grandmother after he finished, presenting her with a small bouquet of primroses Margo had given him for the occasion. Eliot watched with his heart in his throat as Eszter touched Teddy under the chin, and then looked at Quentin, gaze sharp. When she spoke, he feared the worst. 

“Éliás, would you ask them for another tune? Teddy’s playing is so charming.” 

“I—oh. Yes, of course,” he said, then in German. “Teddy, Oma loved your song. Why don’t you play her your Mozart?” 

Teddy beamed, already an eager performer, and launched into an enthusiastic rendition of _Twinkle Twinkle Little Star._ Eszter took her seat on the sofa once more, and Todd poured her another cup of tea. She murmured something to him as he handed her the cup and saucer, and Todd glanced at Eliot with wide eyes before offering Eszter an uncertain nod and replying in an equally low tone. 

“What did she say?” Eliot asked, when the impromptu concert was over and Eszter had retired to her room for a short rest before supper. He spoke German for Quentin’s benefit as his husband took his hand in response to the worry no doubt reflected equally across his and Todd’s expressions. Teddy played on the carpet, unaware of their urgent whispers. 

“She said,” Todd began, before looking over his shoulder as though he feared they would be overheard. “She said ‘My grandson, he is the spitting image of his father, no?’”

“Oh.” Eliot felt a strange sense of peace fall over him even as Quentin blanched.

Eszter and Szonja departed the next morning, their bags packed just a bit tighter than when they had arrived. Eliot had enclosed gifts for each of Szonja’s children, and letters for his brothers, should they wish to speak to him. It wasn’t the support he wished to give, but it was a start. 

Once back inside, Quentin took his hand. Eliot relaxed, knowing they were safe to have such simple pleasures again. Despite his own peace, Quentin’s eyes were worried. 

“Do you think we should be worried? About what you mother said yesterday?” He wet his lips, lowering his voice. “About Teddy’s resemblance to his father?”

Eliot smiled, leaning in to kiss his husband’s forehead. 

“It’s alright,” he promised him. “Q, what blessing she has to give, it’s been given.”

After years of living as such, Eliot was no longer an orphan. Only time would tell, but in this instance he would choose to hope, and trust that his mother saw the same beauty in his family that he did.

* * *

Eliot and Margo celebrated their tenth wedding anniversary with great pomp and ceremony. Lady Sophia hosted a ball in their honor, and it seemed all the aristocracy of Vienna turned out to eat, drink, waltz, and toast to the Herr and Lady Waugh, still the epitome of class and fashion even now that the bloom of youth had left them. 

Quentin was happy to linger at the edge of the dance floor, watching his husband and wife swirl in each other’s arms with love bubbling in his veins like the finest champagne. They were everything beautiful to him, Margo’s skirts wine red and roses in her hair, and Eliot a sleek line of coattails and frothing white cravat. They were romance, fidelity, _fertility_ , and alongside Quentin the whole city admired them as they deserved.

(“When it is _our_ tenth anniversary, darling, we shall celebrate just as gaily,” Eliot promised Quentin in a whisper between waltzes, his cheeks already rosy with love.)

It had been years since the tumultuous events that had brought Quentin permanently into the Waugh household, and all gossip concerning Eliot’s sudden tour had been forgotten with the birth of their children, exactly as they had intended. Margo and Eliot had transformed with the years from young lovers to the sovereigns of an upstanding and respectable household, a dynasty full of promise. 

Quentin stood somewhat smugly, knowing it was all because of the love between the three of them. 

Even Teddy and Clara had performed earlier that evening for their guests, singing a sweet song to Eliot’s accompaniment before Todd and the nanny had seen them home to bed. They were agreed by all to be adorable and talented, and Quentin felt nothing but joy and pride as he applauded their brief performance. However, with the children now old enough to make even brief appearances in society there came certain risks, as they were too soon to learn.

It was blessedly late, the main festivities dwindling down to some friends and family enjoying chamber music and drinks. Quentin moved between a few conversations, far from drunk but savoring the warmth brought by a few glasses of good wine. He had just caught Eliot’s eye across the ballroom when a new conversation struck his ear that chilled him. 

“...especially the boy. I’m merely saying that Waugh cuts such an _exotic_ figure, one would expect his heir to follow the mold a little more closely.”

It was Lady Sophia’s husband who laughed in reply, a bit too loud and obviously uncomfortable.

“Come now, Frederick, such talk is hardly gentlemanly,” Rolf said. “I found the children’s singing to be nothing but charming. They’ve certainly inherited their father’s musical talents.”

“Ah, but not his _looks_ , hm?” The voice came from a certain Herr Wolf, whose cheeks were rosy with drink. He was some business friend of Lady Sophia’s husband, and hardly a figure of notice in Vienna, but his words still brought a furrow to Quentin’s brow. “Certainly the children were charming, but one can’t help but to ask…”

“My dear Q, you look terribly consternated all the sudden.” A solid gloved hand at his elbow drew Quentin out of his eavesdropping, and he looked up to meet Eliot’s concerned gaze. 

“Herr Wolf has had too much to drink,” Quentin murmured, “And he is wondering loudly why Teddy doesn’t share your distinct build.” 

“What a boor,” Eliot grumbled, “What does he know of Teddy’s build, regardless? He was already well into his cups while they were singing.” 

“Gossip from his wife, I imagine. You know how Lady Sophia’s circle can be.” 

Eliot sighed. “Perhaps. Not everyone can be so fortunate in wives as ourselves.”

“Should I not have come?” Quentin spoke lowly. “Now that Teddy is older, the resemblance is more noticeable. Perhaps I should make more of an effort—” 

“Nonsense.” For the first time in their conversation Eliot looked a bit irritated. “We don’t make decisions in this family based on one fool looking to make a scene out of nothing. Margo has worked far too hard on our safety for that.”

“I suppose you’re right.” 

“...ah, but here is the man himself.” Quentin’s shoulders tightened as Herr Wolf approached, his beady eyes on Eliot. “Herr Waugh, I do hope you can help us solve this conundrum—“ 

“He’s drunk,” Quentin warned, turning so that the man couldn’t see his face. “And as you say is looking to embarrass himself. There’s no need to rise to this, Eliot.” 

“I would never, Herr Coldwater.” Eliot winked before turning to greet Herr Wolf, who had dragged the unfortunate Rolf along with him. “Good evening, sir. How might I be of service on this lovely occasion?” 

“Well, I quite enjoyed your children’s performance—already so talented, and no wonder, with so many great musicians at home—” Herr Wolf cast his gaze on Quentin in a manner that left him quite chafed. “—but it does seem a terrific coincidence that your eldest bears so little resemblance. If I didn’t know better, I might think—” 

“Indeed, my son takes after his grandfather,” Eliot said lightly, cutting him off. “Earl Hanson is thrilled of course. When they are in the same room the resemblance is quite uncanny.” 

“Ah yes, strong noble blood, that certainly explains our mystery,” Herr Wolf agreed. Quentin bristled at the insult to Eliot’s heritage, but then Wolf elbowed Rolf with a guffaw as he brazenly continued: “And here we were thinking Herr Coldwater had been helping out around the house! But you must keep a closer eye on Lady Waugh than to allow that.” 

Quentin was so shocked by the man’s coarse words that he noticed a moment too late that Eliot was fiddling with the fastening of his glove. Before Quentin—or Rolf, for that matter, who was already stammering apologies—could intervene, Eliot had peeled the glove from his hand and slapped Herr Wolf across the face with it. 

“H-Herr Waugh!” The man sputtered, shocked, “I only spoke in jest.” 

“Indeed, sir, you speak in jest of the honor of _my lady wife,_ ” Eliot replied, “I answer such barbarism with the violence it deserves.” 

And so the famous Eliot Waugh set himself to engage in an illegal duel. His maligned lady wife was less than pleased.

“Margo has barred me from her bedchamber,” Eliot announced late that night as Quentin entered his study, both of them still dressed in their finery. “I may well be killed tomorrow and yet I shall see no tenderness from our darling Frau Waugh.” 

“She is only worried, Eliot.” Quentin laid his hands on Eliot’s shoulders from behind and leant down to kiss his temple.

“I should be going in your stead,” Quentin murmured, more than a little nauseous as he watched Eliot clean his mother of pearl handled pistol. It had served as little more than decoration in Eliot’s study for years, an eclectic wedding gift from the emperor. “They are right, after all, and it’s been my doing.” 

“My love, I appreciate your eagerness to defend Margo’s honor but she only needs one husband risking his life at a time,” Eliot said in reply. “Besides, you showing up to demand satisfaction for slander against the paternity of my children isn’t exactly going to prove my virility.” 

Quentin worried at his bottom lip with his teeth for a moment before speaking again. 

“What if this is only the beginning?” he asked, fearful to even give the words power by voicing them. “A duel is...it is no small matter, Eliot. And if it is to be the first of many—”

Eliot cocked his pistol, checking the sights, and the click may as well have been a gunshot given the quiet of the room. 

“It won’t be,” Eliot promised, standing up to kiss him. “I’m going to see to it myself.” 

The morning brought little relief to Quentin’s nerves, or to Margo’s temper. 

“This is an asinine venture from top to bottom,” she informed Eliot as he waited for the carriage, “I _forbid_ you from getting yourself killed, do you understand me?”

“Now, now, my dear, if I do perish, you and Quentin can finally run away together like you’ve always dreamed of.” 

Margo scoffed in an extremely unlady-like manner. 

“You know neither of us can live without you, you ridiculous, insufferable fool,” she said, scowling past the tears that pooled in her eyes. Eliot’s gaze softened, and he pressed a gentle kiss to his wife’s mouth. 

“I know, darling,” he replied, “I’ll be home in time for lunch, I swear it.” 

Eliot kissed Quentin as well, and then he was gone, off to defend the good reputation of their house. Margo and Quentin watched through the front window as the carriage disappeared, and with it their dearest love. Quentin felt as though he were holding his breath, so tight was the worry in his belly. He couldn’t help repeating his words from the night before.

“I should have gone in his stead.”

Quentin was surprised when Margo shook her head. 

“This is something only he can do,” she said, in spite of her earlier anger. “I hate that it must be done, but this is the cost of our happiness.” 

Quentin took his wife’s hand. “My lady…” 

“You’ve made many sacrifices for this family, Q,” Margo explained. “This is the sacrifice Eliot must make for us. They called him courageous, when we were first engaged, and every now and then he will be required to remind them. As the years go on, as Teddy grows to look more and more unlike his supposed father...Eliot will have to remind Vienna of his courage.” 

Quentin couldn’t help but think in that moment that it was Margo who was truly the bravest among them. 

“Then we will trust our husband to his duty.” 

“Indeed,” Margo agreed, squaring her shoulders. “In the meantime I intend to enjoy a tonic.” 

Margo set out for her parlor, and Quentin followed.

In two hours— perhaps the longest of Quentin’s life— Eliot returned, uninjured but with a rakish tear in the sleeve of his best overcoat where Wolf’s bullet had grazed him and what would become an oft repeated tale of near certain death and ultimate victory. Margo, who had remained her stoic self throughout the harrowing ordeal, touched the bullet hole in her husband’s coat and promptly burst into tears. 

“There, there, Bambi,” Eliot soothed her, his cheeks flushed from the morning’s events. “I’ve come back to you all in one piece, and that fool Wolf shan’t be opening his mouth again so carelessly.” 

“Don’t even speak his name in this house,” Margo commanded, voice dark as she ran her hands over Eliot’s torso beneath his jacket, as if to inspect him for unseen wounds. 

“Eliot.” 

Quentin was certain he had quite lost his good sense when he stepped close to ask hopefully, “Did you kill him?” but Eliot’s eyes flashed hot in a manner that suggested their lovemaking tonight would be vigorous indeed. He sighed then, flicking his hair back from his eyes with a horrifically attractive air of grandeur as he pronounced:

“Alas, the scoundrel shall live. But only just. I do believe I left him quite maimed.” 

Quentin could not resist pulling Eliot down into a kiss then. He still carried the scent of gunpowder about him, and Quentin could feel his racing pulse when he fit his hand to his throat. It was delicious, half for the relief of his husband coming home safe and sound and half for the barbaric pleasure of knowing Eliot had defended their home with nothing but a pistol and his steady hand. Quentin felt quite the trembling housewife in that moment and it was far from an ugly sensation.

Eliot kissed him again and again, and then Margo, who for once allowed herself to be held and comforted. After a few moments of such intimacy Eliot laughed, as though the sound couldn’t possibly be kept inside him. 

“Isn’t it wonderful to be alive and together,” he said, a little breathless, and for the first time Quentin saw the crack in his bravado, the slight tremble to his fingers. “I think I won’t go to court today, my loves. We have a duty to celebrate my triumph, and know one another in all life-affirming ways.” 

“‘Life affirming’,” Margo grumbled, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “It would serve you right if we tied you to the bed post right now and made you watch us _affirm life_ all on our own.” 

Eliot laughed again, a warmer sound. “You speak as though that would be a punishment, Bambi.” 

One at a time, Eliot pulled their hands to his lips. “Comfort one another,” he entreated as he stepped towards the doors of his study. “I must go and send a note to dear Gerard. This coat is going to need a patch. Shall I find you both upstairs?” 

“You should be so lucky—” 

“Margo.” Quentin spoke softly. After her honesty earlier he know her prickles now were only the ghost of fear and uncertainty. “Please, can we go upstairs? I can help you with your stays.” 

He fit his hands to her waist, knowing how she liked the warmth of his touch over her rigid undergarments. 

“Very well,” she acquiesced. “I’ll go up and pour us some wine.” 

“I’m right behind you,” Quentin promised, kissing his wife softly before she mounted the stairs. He stepped into Eliot’s study, where his husband had just set his gun on the desk. It bore powder burns around the muzzle. 

“Q,” Eliot asked, his back turned. “Is she alright? Really?” 

“She was frightened Eliot, as was I,” Quentin confessed. “But we trusted you. It had to be done.” 

Eliot nodded, and Quentin thought again on Margo’s earlier words. His wife and husband put a great many invisible efforts into protecting him and their children. Quentin would never take their courage for granted again. 

“And you?” He asked. “Are you alright, my love?”

Eliot sighed, and the tension drained from his shoulders. He turned to offer Quentin a fragile smile. 

“Yes,” he promised. “It is as I said. I’d like to send a note to the tailor, and perhaps go and hold our little ones close in the nursery for a few moments. Then I’ll be along.” 

Eliot took him in his arms and dropped a tender kiss on Quentin’s brow. “In the meantime, take care of my Bambi.”

“I will,” he promised, giving Eliot’s slim hips a squeeze. “Then I intend to take care of _you_. If you aren’t too tired after your ordeal.” 

“Never,” Eliot replied, looking nothing less than thrilled. “Though our lady wife will be most displeased if she finds you intend to reward me for my bad behavior.” 

“Our lady wife will have her mind otherwise occupied.” Quentin cupped his hand to the front of Eliot’s trousers just to taste the gasp off his lips. “Come as soon as you can.”

“My stallion.” Eliot sent him out towards the stairs with another kiss and a firm pat on the ass. 

Quentin took nothing but pleasure in obedience to his spouse, and so up he went to serve his lady wife at Eliot’s behest. Margo allowed him the honor of loosening her stays, revealing all the sweet fullness of her figure, and then she put him on his back. That was how Eliot found them, with Margo riding in Quentin’s lap, all fearful anger forgotten. He watched, spellbound, as they both found their climax and after Margo and Quentin held their savior between them. Quentin brought Eliot to pleasure eagerly with his hands and mouth, his own anxiety dissipating as he tasted his fill of his husband. 

An hour later, breathless from the efforts of Quentin’s lovemaking, Eliot pressed a hand to his heart. 

“I am truly blessed.”

Between them, Margo laughed, her frazzled nerves but a distant memory. 

“Um.” 

Husband and wife looked to Quentin who was feeling a sense of mild consternation.

“What is it, darling?” Eliot asked. Wordlessly, Quentin drew his fingertips between Margo’s folds, his cheeks heating as they came away wet and white. 

“I didn’t think to—and, well, not that I would mind, but we had hardly planned…”

Quentin waited as Eliot and Margo looked at one another. Eliot raised his eyebrows, a grin playing at his lips. Margo rolled her eyes, but she was grinning too as she set a pillow beneath her hips. 

“Well, it’s like you said, dear,” Margo said, crossing her ankles. “‘Life affirmation’ and all that.” 

And so their daughter Honour came to be. 

* * *

There came a set of events that led to Theodore and Clara Waugh learning a bit of Russian during their formative years:

Revolution came to Vienna, as it is wont to do. Those sympathetic to the Hungarians marched to the Hofburg palace while the Austrians marched to Pest to suppress the revolutionaries calling for democracy. The Waugh household, much more German and Hungarian than Austrian, fell into the category of _suspicious_.

“Eliot, are you _absolutely sure_ that you are immune to the press gangs roaming the streets?” Margo asked one afternoon. The city streets were flooded with the mob. Their own house was a quiet paradise from the unrest, but for how long? 

“I’m the court composer, Margo,” Eliot said as he straightened young Teddy’s collar, now all of ten years old and looking very spiffy in his first bespoke suit. “I have been assured that I am not needed in his Imperial Majesty’s army.”

“Unless they wish for you to play the fife and drum,” Quentin said, eyes sparkling as he bounced one-year-old Honour on his knee. Her curls were coming in ink black, somehow like Eliot’s own despite the truth of her paternity, and looking at her every day felt like nothing short of a miracle.

Margo worried despite herself, asking him everyday as the crowds grew larger and the army needed every available man to do his duty. Her worry was misplaced, however, as they had all missed the most obvious choice for drafting. When the army came, they didn’t come for Eliot.

“Yes, Good Afternoon, Lady Waugh. We are looking for Herr Quentin Coldwater. He has been called to do his duty for the Emperor and his country.”

The same Quentin Coldwater, panic stricken and nearly weeping, had been whisked away moments ago to a closet by a very calm and collected Eliot as soon as he had seen the horses approach the house. 

“Eliot– they can’t– I can’t– I’ll–”

“Shh…” Eliot placed a palm over his lover’s mouth, leaning their foreheads together. “We must be quiet. I will not give you away to them.”

Quentin leaned into him, his body one long and tense line. Eliot stroked his back as Margo deftly sent the soldiers away (“No, I’m so sorry, Herr Coldwater is traveling for an engagement. I’m sure he will be back in about two days time, now gentlemen if you would excuse me, I have the nursery to attend to–”), and when they were able to emerge they all embraced each other and kissed their children. Then it was time to plan. 

“We must leave,” Eliot said, pulling his fingers through his curls for the fifth time at least. He was haunted by the fear that had darkened Quentin’s eyes while they were hidden in the closet. “They will return in two days, and we must be gone.”

“Eliot, you can’t risk your place at court for me,” Quentin reasoned after Frau Schiller had gotten a very strong cup of tea in him, bracing his nerves somewhat. “You would be risking everything you have built here, your whole life’s work–”

Eliot snapped around, throwing his gloves to the ground. “I would risk _everything_ to keep you safe, Quentin.”

“While he is unnecessarily dramatic, Eliot is right,” Margo said, given Eliot an impatient side-eye. “We cannot risk your safety, Quentin, not for any status or title in the world. But perhaps we will say that we are merely taking a last minute holiday. I hear the weather is lovely up north this time of year.”

That was the final word on the matter. 

By noon the following day, the entire Waugh family and their bare essentials (only one trunk each for Eliot and Margo) were packed away into a carriage, heading into the direction of one Duke Idri’s winter estate, just south of St. Petersburg, Russia.

Eliot sent a letter while on the road, and when they arrived at the sprawling estate, dirty and tired and with three very cranky children in tow, Idri welcomed them with open arms. 

Once they were able to bathe and change into fresh clothes, the duke waited for them in his salon, and Eliot had to contain a shuddering breath of relief as his former lover greeted him with a kiss on both cheeks. 

“My dearest friends,” Idri declared, “You could not be more welcome. Please, consider my home yours.”

Eliot reached behind him to find Quentin’s hand and squeeze tight. They were safe.

“Now,” the duke continued, addressing their starstruck children. “I have several grandchildren in the nursery who have been practicing their German very diligently in preparation for your visit. Is there any chance you would care to make their acquaintance?” 

Teddy and Clara both nodded shyly, but were happy to be led to the spacious and airy nursery, Margo following behind with the baby in her arms to be introduced to the nanny on staff. Eliot hung back with Idri as Quentin took Clara and Teddy in, one of their little hands in each of his. Eliot’s chest tightened.

“Your Serene Highness,” he said quietly, “I fear this favor is too great, and I shall forever be in your debt.” 

“My dear,” Idri replied, the lightly accented German as genteel as ever in his deep voice, “I think we both know how essential Herr Coldwater is to your happiness. I would go to far greater inconveniences than a few unexpected houseguests in order to preserve that.” 

They watched as Quentin led a shy Clara to a table where one of Idri’s granddaughters was engaged with some simple watercolor paints. His husband offered a courtly bow, and made formal introductions, as if both children were ladies at court. Idri’s granddaughter giggled, as did Clara, and just like that, they were friends. 

“I can see why you chose him,” Idri commented, eyes warm on Eliot. “Why he is good for you.” 

“Yes,” Eliot replied, throat tight. “ _Thank you,_ Idri.” 

“Come,” Idri said, steering Eliot away from the nursery. “I have some excellent vodka in my study, and we can discuss the possibility of a few concerts while you are here.” 

And there was no more said about it.

Eliot thought his little family settled rather quickly into the imperial lifestyle. Margo immediately made friends with Idri’s eldest daughters who came to call, and Quentin made smart use of Idri’s very fine pianos to continue his work. Teddy and Clara traipsed the halls of the ancient manor as if it were the Vienna public park, and even little Honour was more than happy to wield a solid silver spoon at mealtimes. 

As for the fear Quentin had shown, the utter terror in his eyes at the thought of conscription in the Emperor’s army, they didn’t speak of it until a month had passed, alone in Quentin’s bedroom. 

“Margo wishes to sleep alone tonight,” Eliot explained as he entered Quentin’s quarters, draping his jacket over a chair. “Clara crawled into bed with her, and she didn’t want to turn her away.”

Quentin closed the book he had been reading, folding his reading glasses and placing them on the bedside. 

“My mother would say that is very inappropriate behavior for a young lady of nine years old.”

Eliot removed his trousers and drew back the covers to join him. 

“And what do you say?”

Quentin pecked him once on the lips, smiling. 

“I say,” he started, settling down to lie against the pillows. “Let her do as she pleases. She’s been through enough. A little motherly comfort will do wonders after crossing the continent in mid-winter.”

Eliot nodded his agreement and reached across to blow out the candle. They settled down against the pillows, face to face.

“And what of her father?” Eliot asked quietly. “Will he accept comfort after his trials?”

In the darkness, Quentin pursed his lips.

“I have a beautiful family, a husband and wife– three children who are healthy and whole,” he said, measuring each word carefully. “One could hardly say that I’ve suffered.”

Eliot stroked a hand down his lover’s face. Quentin leaned into the touch, his eyes falling closed. Almost eleven years had passed, and each touch still felt the same.

“Not every man is made for war, Quentin.”

Quentin exhaled a shuddering breath, snuggled closer until his face was tucked against Eliot’s neck. Eliot wrapped his arms around him. 

“How could I have acted so shamefully?” Quentin whispered, his voice cracked. “It is a pointless war, to be sure, but there are men who would do their duty–even with the risk, and I–”

“Shh,” Eliot soothed. “You needn’t think of it.”

“But I should have shown more bravery–”

“Bravery?” Eliot shook his head. “You have sacrificed so much, Q, to make this family with us. Shown more bravery and restraint than most men can even conceive of. Sometimes I think– well, I think that you will rise in the morning and realize all that you have given up to be with us.”

Quentin lifted his face, meeting Eliot’s wet eyes. It was the first time in years that Eliot had voiced such concerns, and his voice shook. 

“It was a sacrifice I wished to make. Don’t ever think that this is anything less than exactly what I wished for.” He kissed him. “Every moment with you is a gift.”

Eliot swallowed hard. “Still, it’s my greatest fear that you will resent me for it, when the children are grown and we are left with only each other.”

“Eliot…”

Eliot forced a smile, stroking his cheek, his lovely, lovely face, and continued.

“But that would be nothing– _nothing–_ compared to the pain of losing you to war. I was the one who shoved you into that broom closet when I saw the soldiers approaching. I’m the one who whisked you away, and I will face the almighty for that decision, head held high, and accept the consequences for my selfishness, knowing that it was all for the man who is my heart.”

Quentin’s next breath was akin to a sob, and Eliot dipped forward to kiss his lips, and then the tears from his cheeks before pulling his lover, his _husband,_ close once more. They shared their warmth, even in a drafty castle such as this.

“Eliot,” Quentin breathed into Eliot’s neck a few moments later. “I would have died–had they managed to find me. You saved my life that day.” 

“You don’t know that–”

Quentin shook his head furiously. “I would have died,” He said again. “They would have ordered me to kill and when I couldn’t they would have– I would have been shot for cowardice– I would have never seen you or Margo or the children again–”

Eliot fisted his hands in Quentin’s shirt. He wanted Quentin to _stop,_ to never voice such horrors, but he had loved Quentin long enough to know that he had to speak the words to make the thoughts of them go away. He would say them once and then they would be gone, taken by the air and ether, never to be heard again.

Eliot held him hard, and when Quentin cried he kissed the tears from his cheeks once more. It had been nearly a month in a carriage and in inns along the road with fear of thieves and disease and weather on their backs– and now that they knew safety, that their children were resting comfortably in the nursery, it was the time for release. 

Quentin clung to him, his hands covetous and his mouth searching. Eliot gave him everything: the press of his mouth and the grasp of his hands, whatever he needed. 

It was comfort, pure and simple. 

“I beg you to let me have you,” Quentin said when their kisses took on and edge of desperate passion, a possessiveness that only those with the fragility of their position could understand. “Let me know you, hold you in my arms– that is, if you’ll allow—”

Eliot pressed himself closer, letting him feel how dearly he wanted such a thing. “Quentin. I’m yours, however you wish to have me. Body and soul, I belong to you.”

Eliot took care of him, and sometimes that meant letting Quentin take care of him. They stripped down to their bare skin, Quentin hot against his back as he slipped his oiled fingers inside of him, working Eliot past the sensitivity to a place where he felt truly open and ready to receive him. Quentin’s lips never left skin the entire time, kissing his neck and his mouth when Eliot twisted around to give it to him. When Eliot was ready, Quentin entered him slow, using enough oil to stain the bed sheets, but Eliot knew it was important to Quentin that this not hurt, that it be only good. 

Once so adjusted, Quentin wrapped his arms around Eliot’s torso and started to roll his hips. Eliot sighed– he was held, he was loved, and because of their quick thinking Quentin was here and could never be taken from him. He would not allow it. And now he could show Quentin how much he loved him, could give him his body and let him take his comfort, and be secure in the knowledge that Eliot was his forever.

They stayed just like that, on their sides, until Quentin’s breath started to hitch and his thrusts took on a more frantic pace. Eliot was a bow in Quentin’s hands, pulled taut and tense. His hand slid down to stroke Eliot’s cock, and they came together, one flesh. 

“My husband,” Quentin whispered to him in the darkness after. “Father to my children. Master of my soul.”

Eliot clung to him, and there in the frozen north they finally found their rest.

* * *

Revolution passed, and so did the years. The Waughs returned home within six months of their departure, and all was well again. Then the children grew, as children were wont to do, until they were barely children anymore. 

Clara Waugh was a very undemanding child. She had been an easy birth— only four hours had passed between the start of Margo’s labor pains and the moment she had first held her in her arms. Teddy had very nearly torn apart the house as a toddler, and Honour was a storm unto herself, but Clara was quiet, content to sit and watch Eliot and Quentin compose without being a bother. One could find her in the garden, or staring wistfully out the window while scribbling her poetry in one of her many notebooks. 

Even when strife arose regarding their eldest daughter’s upbringing, it was hardly anything of Clara’s doing.

“Teddy, just sit, we’ll fix you up quick,” Quentin said on a normal winter morning, ushering a very tired looking Teddy into the breakfast room, his voice frantically cheerful. “You should eat something— here, have some bread, Frau Schiller knows it’s your favorite—“

Eliot sipped his coffee and gazed over the cup at Clara, reading at the breakfast table as was her normal habit. Margo had made a show of admonishing their now seventeen year old daughter for it some years before but the truth was that no one truly minded. Well, no one except Eliot, as it was. 

“Clara, darling,” Eliot started. His eldest daughter looked up, her hand already curled around the next page. 

“Yes, Papa?”

“You know that Fraulein Marie’s coming out party is next Saturday?”

Clara hummed her assent, the usual guards clouding her eyes. Eliot continued. 

“Well, what say you to attending it? You never get to spend enough time with those of your similar age.”

Clara bit the inside of her cheek in a way that reminded him vividly of Margo. 

“I think not, Papa, if it’s all the same to you.”

Eliot set his cup down. “But why ever not? It was kind of her to invite you, and it sounds like it will be a lovely time.”

Clara closed her book. Quentin continued to pile bread on Teddy’s plate. 

“You can't live on coffee and whatever’s leftover at the cafe alone. You have to eat something Teddy— it’s been three days—“

“I said I was _fine_ , Uncle Quentin—“

“I hardly know Marie,” Clara said. “I’m sure she only invited me because of you and Mama.”

Eliot furrowed his brow. “I should think not. I’m sure her mother thought you were so charming at our Christmas party. You remember, right? When you and Teddy performed that duet?” Eliot tapped his son’s sleeve. “You remember, don’t you, Teddy?”

His son didn’t look up from where he stared at his plate of untouched food. For some reason, Quentin’s gaze was exasperated. 

“Not now, Eliot.”

Eliot threw up his hands, standing up. 

“I suppose I'm the only person here who wishes to enjoy the season.”

And so it continued. Clara continued to be uninterested in any society event, including her own coming out. At sixteen Clara was reaching the perfect age to be debuted to society, and yet any offer of a party, however modest, was shot down. 

“It needn’t be elaborate, Clara,” Eliot said another evening at the dinner table. “Just a few friends and family and anyone suitable as a match. Your mother is a _lady,_ after all. Uncle Quentin will play that polka you like, and you know mama and I would get you a new dress—“

“I have enough dresses, Papa,” Clara said, exasperated as she looked down in her soup. “And such a spectacle would only make me feel foolish.”

“She’d look silly in a white dress!” Piped up seven year old Honour, making Eliot immediately regret spoiling her and having her eat dinner with them at such a young age. 

“Hush, Honour,” Margo said. “Clara, you don’t have to have a party if don’t wish to.”

Eliot was affronted. “Am I the only one here with thought for the future—“

Quentin entered then, mouth hard and eyes stricken. Margo put her fork down. 

“Anything?”

Quentin shook his head, taking his usual seat at Eliot’s left. “He’s sleeping off the worst of it now. I’ll have Todd bring him a tray in a little while.”

“Why do you look like a funeral attendant? Teddy’s only had one too many drinks, there are worse things for a young man to get up to,” Eliot said, cutting another slice of meat. “I daresay we’ve all been hungover before. He’ll be right as rain tomorrow.”

Quentin bit his lip, taking a portion of meat when Todd offered him the tray. 

“We can only hope.” He shared a meaningful look with Margo, and Eliot had a distinct feeling that he was missing something. 

He wet his lips, leaning forward. “But back to the matter of Clara’s coming out—“

Margo sighed loudly. “Would you be _quiet_ about that now?”

The table went silent. 

“Excuse me,” Quentin mumbled, slapping his napkin against the table and standing. 

Clara stared down at her plate, lips pursed. Margo’s jaw was hard, and she shook her head at him. 

“Is there something I’m missing? Am I not to be privy to the secrets of this household?” Eliot asked to the silent room. 

Margo stood, pushing in her chair. “No one is trying to exclude you. You do that well enough on your own.”

She left to chase after Quentin, leaving Eliot alone with his daughters. 

“If it would make you happy, father, a party would be lovely,” Clara said quietly. 

Eliot’s heart broke, feeling quite the brute. Even Honour didn’t have anything smart to say. 

“Hold your thoughts, Clara. We’ll speak later.” He rose as well, leaving the table to chase after his spouses. 

He found Quentin and Margo in the study, her on her toes with their arms around each other in a tender embrace. She whispered something in his ear, drawing a hiccuping laugh from him that sounded more like a sob. Eliot paused, taking in the image. His husband, his wife. 

He cleared his throat, and they broke apart. Quentin swept hair back from his face while Eliot closed the door behind him. 

“I caused quite a scene then?” Quentin said. 

“It was I that caused the scene,” Margo said. “And I don’t regret it for a moment. How could you be so blind, Eliot?”

“I don’t understand,” Eliot said, his anger abating, replaced with hurt confusion. “I only wish for Clara to be happy. For her to be included in the charms of youth—“

Eliot was taken aback when Quentin threw his hands in the air. 

“You know not of what you speak, Eliot.” 

Eliot tried to take his hand, but he shook his off. “Dearest, I only worry—“

“No, you only think of your own passions, and you cannot fathom that your daughter may not share them.” 

Quentin had never spoken to him so sharply. Margo looked away when Eliot tried to meet her eyes. 

Quentin continued, face flushed with anger now. 

“Honour—a child!—was bedridden for three _days_ when she wasn’t cast in the Nativity pageant and you said nothing, yet you would harass Clara because she has no taste for parties?”

“I am _concerned_ ,” Eliot shot back, his own voice rising, “She’s a young woman of charm and she has no interest—“

“She has no interest in being a darling of society, and she is _fine_ ,” Quentin said, “She’s more than fine. She’s thoughtful, and kind, and intelligent, and yes, perhaps of a more interior disposition than most. And yet she is our—“

Quentin paused, lowering his voice from years of careful habit even in their own home. 

“She is our only child _not_ touched by my melancholy. Teddy alone—“ he stopped, swallowing, “It worries me deeply that you cannot see that.”

Eliot was left without a response. Quentin deflated.

“Do you think this affliction I have lived with my entire is merely a quietness of personality?” He asked. “I have spent two decades at your side, Eliot, and there are moments when I question whether you understand the matter at all.”

Eliot’s stomach dropped. He opened his mouth to retort, something sharp on his tongue, when Margo stepped between them. 

“I don’t think quarreling will help any of our children.” She faced Eliot. “Eliot, you must open your eyes and see what is before you. Q, you cannot assume he understands, when you have tried to keep this from him.”

Quentin averted his eyes when Eliot looked at him. 

“Keep _what_ from me?” No reply. “Q?”

Eliot took a new approach, softening the edges of his voice and stepping closer. 

“My love, tell me what ails you,” Eliot said, taking Quentin’s face between his hands. 

Quentin sighed at Eliot’s touch. The tension melted from his shoulders. His next words were a whisper. 

“Teddy is ill.”

Eliot smiled, laughing softly. “He’ll be better soon. It’s just like when he was a boy and he had that cold—“

“It’s not.” Quentin shook his head. “Eliot, Teddy is _ill._ ”

Eliot blinked, letting Quentin’s meaning wash over him. 

“You mean—that he—“

Quentin nodded. “I was of a similar age as him when I had my first… episode. I ended up drinking too much to numb the pain and nearly set the horse barn on fire. To see our son go through this… I didn’t know how to explain it to you.”

Eliot sighed. “And I’ve been running around, squawking about Clara to anyone would listen, and you’ve been dealing with this.”

“I only just told Margo of my suspicions yesterday. She wanted to tell you right away, but I—“

Margo shook her head. “Q, it’s alright—“

“But I didn’t— I wanted to keep it to myself for just a little while longer. I felt so guilty.”

Eliot swallowed his own pride, his anger at Quentin for keeping something about their son from him, for leaving him out of something so vital. 

“Whatever for?”

Quentin held his wrist, as if to keep him close, leaning into his palm. 

“I thought that if I—perhaps, if I were not Teddy’s birth father that he—he wouldn’t be cursed with this ailment. Like me.”

Eliot leaned down, tilting their foreheads together. 

“Don’t even speak of it. This is _not_ your doing.”

Quentin laughed humorlessly. “Whose fault is it then?”

Eliot’s heart ached at the hitch in Quentin’s voice. His love looked so tired, half-spent himself. Quentin’s melancholia had come and gone in the almost twenty years of their partnership, sometimes like a wispy cirrus cloud, barely there and gone in a flash. Other times it was a heavy, drenching rain that left the whole house feeling its effects. The worse stint had been six months after Clara was born, when Quentin had composed a symphony that was greeted with a rather lukewarm response from critics. He hadn’t been able to leave the house for weeks. 

Eliot knew in his heart that he couldn’t fix this. Quentin had never asked him to fix him, only to love him all the same. 

“We will get through this, and Teddy will be alright.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you are alright,” Margo chimed in, taking Eliot’s hand and Quentin’s alike. “He’s strong, like his father.”

Quentin’s resolve broke then, and Margo and Eliot folded him in their arms, holding him tight. Eliot buried his nose in Quentin’s hair, his wife grasping the back of his jacket.

The next day, Eliot found Clara in the parlor after breakfast, her pen poised over her notebook that rested in her lap. She closed it upon seeing him, probably smearing the ink in the process. It made Eliot ache with guilt. 

“Good morning, Papa.”

“Good morning,” Eliot returned, feeling ridiculously formal. “The sun is— well, the weather is lovely today, is it not?”

Clara nodded, smiling. “It is. I’ve always loved the windows in here.”

Eliot smiled in return, taking a seat across from her at the piano bench. 

“I remember,” he said. “You and Teddy used to play here, as children. Until Todd would shoo you out.”

She laughed. “Unless Mama found us first. Then she would play hide-and-seek with us.”

“Your mother is quite competitive, did she ever let you win?”

“Not once!”

They shared another laugh, relaxing into comfortable silence. 

“Is Teddy alright?” She asked slowly, carefully. Of course she had noticed her brother's struggles, even when Eliot had failed to do so.

Eliot bit his lip, looking down into his lap. Quentin had managed to get Teddy to eat breakfast off of a tray that morning, and got him dressed enough to take a walk in the fresh air. It was small progress, but any progress was welcome. 

“He will be,” Eliot said. “Soon.”

Clara’s jaw was hard as she nodded. 

“I suppose there’s little we can do in these situations, other than offer him our love and compassion.”

Eliot nodded his agreement. “Just so.” He cleared his throat. “But there are some things over which we have greater control. My treatment of you in these last few weeks, for example.”

Clara shook her head, smoothing her hands over her mauve skirts. His daughter had always favored such a plain manner of dress, so unlike her mother, though they were alike in countless other ways. Eliot could admit in his maturity that he was often at a loss as to how he could express affection to those he loved when he wasn’t free to shower them with gifts. Even Teddy was already quite the clothes horse at eighteen thanks to Eliot’s guidance, but Clara had always resisted. 

“Papa,” Clara said, “There’s no need.”

“There is every need, I’m afraid. But I won’t bore you with apologies. I will only say sorry once, that I haven’t listened to what you wanted.”

Clara tucked a stray hair behind her ear. She was the only one to inherit Quentin’s straight brown hair.

“I know you only wish the best for me.”

Too wise. So like Margo, wise beyond her years and life experience. Clara didn’t need to make mistakes to realize the truths of life, as Eliot had. For a moment, he was jealous of his eldest daughter. 

“Do you remember the poem you shared with me and mama? At Christmas?“ Eliot cleared his throat, adjusting his coat to sit at the piano. “I felt inspired to set it to music. I hope that was alright—“

“You made my poem into a song?” Clara asked, brow furrowed. 

“Indeed.” Eliot swallowed. “And you see, your uncle is much more of a songwriter than I, so I want to be sure that the word stresses are to your liking.”

Clara put aside her journal, taking a seat on the loveseat nearest the piano. “I see. I’d be more than happy to offer my critique.”

Eliot smiled. His daughter was _so much_ like her mother. “Thank you. If you like it— perhaps we could perform it together? We could surprise your mother for her birthday, or some other family gathering, if you like. You have such a lovely voice, Clara.”

If he thought it would make her happy, Eliot would secure her a concert hall, but not every child in their family was destined for public performance, and it was time for Eliot to make his peace with that. If this was how Eliot would be able to share music with his daughter then he would make it as happy a collaboration for her as he could.

Clara returned his smile, nodding. “I’d like that, Papa. Thank you.” 

He played it for her, singing it in a lower octave. Clara was always a quiet audience, her expression not betraying her true feelings, be they positive or negative. Though after he finished, she smiled. 

“Do you like it?” He asked. 

She nodded. “The melody is beautiful. And the word stresses are nice as well.”

“I’ve never had a finer review,” Eliot said, standing and checking his pocket watch. He had been due at court an hour before. “I’ll have it transcribed immediately.”

Clara nodded, and Eliot made to take his leave. 

“Papa?”

Eliot stopped. Clara stood, suddenly looking nervous. 

“Yes, my dear?”

“Regarding my debut, Papa,” Clara started, slowly, carefully. “I—unless it would make you terribly unhappy—I don’t think I want one.” 

Eliot swallowed. “Not at all?” he said. “My darling—I ask only to be sure you understand—no debut at all would mean…” 

Clara wrung her hands as she nodded, and Eliot realized this must have been weighing on her for some time. “Yes, I… I wish to not marry. I’d much rather stay here, with our family.”

Eliot replaced his watch back in his pocket. He gestured for her to sit back on the sofa and took the spot beside her. 

“There are many who aren’t called to marriage, for any number of reasons,” Eliot said, keeping his voice kind and without judgement. He thought of Quentin, who could only ever be married in his heart, or Todd who had wed himself to his work from a young age. Frau Schiller had found bliss in spinsterhood, content to live with her sister’s children since her retirement last winter. “Clara, don’t think on my feelings, only your own. Will such a life make you happy? My only fear is that you might have regrets.”

Clara considered his question carefully, and Eliot wondered how they had raised such a thoughtful person, what with Margo’s temper and Quentin’s impulsivity running through her veins. 

With a jolt, Eliot realized that it was him. Her need to analyze and hold her issues close to her chest until she found them pretty enough to share with others… that was all Eliot. 

“Happiness is a strange thing,” she said finally. “It is a subject I rarely tackle in my poetry. So fleeting, and often unreliable.”

Clara paused, and worry clung to Eliot’s heart like a cobweb. His only wish for his children was happiness, and if he had failed…

But Clara set her hand on his arm and smiled. “I see your concern, Papa, as good as you have become at hiding it, but you miss my meaning,” she said earnestly. “I concern myself little with happiness, but I’m no stranger to love. Unconditional love, which I receive from you and Mama, and dear Uncle Quentin. Teddy as well, and even Honour, though she is approaching her sour adolescent phase.”

Eliot laughed in spite of himself. “Indeed, that is a brewing storm.” 

“But this—filial love, and perhaps that of friendship—is all the love I desire, Papa. To give and to receive.” Clara looked down at her hands. “If you—and Mama—if you can both accept that, then I think that will be happiness for me.” 

“Lord knows, your mother will be thrilled to have you as long as she can,” Eliot said. Clara looked up with hope in her eyes, and Eliot cupped her cheek with his hand. “Clara, dear, our hearts may not be identical, but that doesn’t mean we couldn’t accept you. You’ll stay here with us for as long as you wish. Of course you will.”

“Thank you, Papa.”

Clara laughed, smiling down at her lap.

“I always thought that…” she began again. “Well, Teddy will follow in your footsteps, and God knows Honour is surely destined to shake things up in this world. But I… I don’t think that’s my lot. I think I shall have to wait longer to know what my destiny is, or whether I believe in such a thing at all.”

Eliot swallowed, biting back the words that he wanted to say. _Of course you are destined for greatness, you are my daughter. You are smart and kind and have the best qualities of all your parents. You can do whatever you want in this life._

“It is a great mystery of life,” he said instead. “To know what it is to simply be. Not to do, but to embrace the wonder of existing _._ Perhaps it will fall to you to unravel that mystery.”

It was the longest conversation Eliot had ever had with Clara, to be sure, and by the end of it he was very late for court, but his daughter’s eyes were wet with happy tears and she was leaning into his arms, wanting her father’s embrace as she had when she was a child and scraped her knee. 

“We shall have a philosopher in this family yet,” he said, pecking a kiss to her hair. “A great thinker.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I know it in my heart, Clara.”

* * *

There comes a time in every family, when children are no longer children, and secrets kept from those held dearest begin to feel less like safety and more like a shroud. It was with this in mind that Quentin sought the tender counsel of his marriage bed. 

“I—It isn’t my place,” he said, curled into Eliot’s side as his husband stroked his fingers through his silvering hair. “But if one of them should ask. I mean—we can’t pretend we’re being as careful as when they were small.” 

“Hm...Eliot, dear, I think Q may have a point.” Margo admitted this wearing only one of Quentin’s shirts, tucked into his other side where they all lay comfortably entangled in bed at seven o’clock on a Tuesday. “And given that Clara intends to remain and care for us into our old age, it bears discussing. Our children haven’t proven to be the most observant on this front, but I certainly don’t intend to never be kissed at the breakfast table again.” 

“Oh, _well_ , if breakfast table kisses are on the line.” Eliot removed his spectacles with a sigh, rubbing his eyes. He made no secret of hating them, but could no longer deny their necessity. Much like Quentin, he’d spent far too many years reading sheet music by candlelight. He set them aside and returned to the warmth of Quentin’s arms, his expression thoughtful. 

“They’re your children,” Quentin murmured. Promised. 

“ _Our_ children,” Eliot replied, soft but firm. “Whatever we have to pretend to the world, in this room we parent as equals, Quentin.” 

“Of course. I only mean that I intend to keep to your decision,” Quentin assured him. “I’ll stay silent forever if that’s your wish. If it’s what you think is best for our family. But—” 

“But it’s beginning to feel like a lie,” Eliot concluded for him, kissing Quentin’s knuckles. “I know, darling. I’ve been having similar stirrings myself.”

It was not some latent paternal fire that urged Quentin to broach the subject. His sacrifice, as Margo had termed it, had been more than willing. But he dared to think, after so many years of love, that revealing their truth couldn’t change things too drastically. Margo would be their mother regardless, and Eliot had lived now twenty years a father. Quentin desired only to continue on as uncle and godfather, but it would be a comfort not to hide his love within their own home, nor to look his adult children in the eye and know that he kept a life-changing secret. 

Eliot sighed, and Quentin knew he wasn’t alone in his thoughts, complicated as they may be.

“Teddy is of age,” Eliot mused after a moment. “And he can’t be half wondering already, given the face he sees in the mirror everyday.” 

Eliot touched Quentin’s chin fondly as he said it, still making his heart flutter after all these years. 

“What are you suggesting, darling?” Quentin asked. 

“I’m saying,” Eliot sighed. “That should the moment present itself, you have my blessing, Q. If you’ll give me the same permission.” 

“Of course,” Quentin agreed, though Eliot didn’t need it.

“Bambi?” Eliot asked, leaning up on one elbow. “Any objections?” 

“Only that I should like to speak to Clara, when the time comes,” she said. “But I think a son should hear such things from his father, whichever one of you the task falls to.” 

Eliot nodded, the set of his mouth revealing his nerves. Quentin understood. How could he not? He had given his children to Eliot, and joyfully, but they had minds of their own now. That they might hate them now for this truth, or turn away from them...it would break Quentin’s heart. It would _destroy_ Eliot. Quentin pet his fingers through the hair on his husband’s chest, patiently waiting for him to put his fear to words. 

“I suppose it’s decided, then,” he sighed at last, looking at Quentin with soft eyes. “If Teddy would fashion himself a Coldwater once he knows I’ll make my peace.” 

“As if I would allow it,” Quentin said, tucking his face into Eliot’s throat, seeking and offering comfort. “I belong to you, Eliot. If I could bear your name myself I would, let alone our children.”

Eliot kissed his temple, and stoked his thumb tenderly over the crow’s feet that had taken up residence at the corner of Quentin’s eye. “My love, whatever the future brings, that sweet notion will be all the solace I require.”

And so they were agreed. In its own time, the truth would be revealed.

~

Though it would be neither his music played, nor Eliot playing it, it was surely the proudest moment Quentin had ever spent in the Imperial theater, for it was today that Theodore Waugh—Their own Teddy! His son!—at only twenty years old was to debut his first concerto. 

It was to be an evening enjoyed by all. Eliot and Margo dressed in their newest and best, and Clara permitted her hair to be done up in a more stylish fashion than usual. Even little Honour was dressed in her finery and allowed walk with them to the theater to see her brother perform. 

“...Just this once, cherub, since the theater isn’t a place for children,” Eliot said to her as she swung their clasped hands between them. “And you must be quiet, and good, and not yell for Teddy when he walks on stage.”

Honour smiled devilishly. “I know, Papa.”

Beside them, feeling proud, was Quentin. His heart was too full and his pride too great, for his son had become a composer, and one that would grace the stages of Europe. 

Once inside the theater, they found their seats. Before he could sit in earnest, there was a tap upon Quentin’s shoulder. 

“Herr Coldwater, Herr Waugh is asking for you backstage, says he would like to speak to you, if at all possible.”

At first Quentin’s brow furrowed in confusion– the only Herr Waugh he knew was standing beside him trying to console an already fidgety nine year old– but then he realized the usher was speaking about Teddy.

“Of course. I’ll be right there.” He turned to Eliot. “I’d better see what the boy needs. Goodness knows the nerves can addle your head if you’re left alone before performances.”

Eliot agreed before hastily turning to scold Honour, who had thought it proper to stand upon her seat to get a better look around the room. Quentin hid his laugh behind his hand while walking backstage to the dressing room he had often visited Eliot in before his many performances. 

He knocked once. “Teddy?”

There was a sound of chair falling, or perhaps the whole table. 

“Yes?” Teddy called, sounding harried. 

“It’s Uncle Quentin, can I come in?”

The door opened at once, revealing Quentin’s eldest in a bit of a state. 

“You came—Sorry I– I was just–”

Quentin followed Teddy inside before shutting the door behind him. Teddy continued stuttering as he righted a chair that had fallen, proving Quentin’s suspicions. 

“Well,” Quentin started, hoping his smile was enough to calm his son’s obviously frazzled nerves. “It’s here! I can’t believe your hard work has paid off–and so soon.”

Teddy hummed his assent, leaning on the chair, frowning deeply. “The conductor keeps taking the tempo rather fast, and the oboe player might as well be asleep for how dispassionately he plays the main theme, but I–I don’t want to talk about that now.” 

“No?” Quentin had assumed he wished to go over details for the performance. “What is it then?”

“Uncle,” Teddy started, the word a time-holder. Teddy was stalling, but why? “I–I don’t know how to begin.” 

Quentin stepped toward him, recognizing the same nerves that often set him to stuttering.

“Teddy,” he said. “This is but one of many performances you will have in your life.” He laughed, only trying to put Teddy at ease. “Once you’re on stage, all your nerves will be a memory and you will be ready to share your music with the world. After all, you are your father’s son.”

Teddy turned, his eyes shining and uncertain. 

“Am I?” he asked.

Quentin’s heart clenched. Teddy wasn’t speaking of the performance. 

“Is there something you would ask me, then?” Quentin asked, sitting down at the small desk, pulling a hand through his hair. He kept it shorter now, but still long enough to get in his eyes. “You can ask me anything, I hope you know that.”

“I do.” Teddy fidgeted where he stood, making no moves to sit. “I think I do, at least.”

Quentin waited for him to go on. Teddy’s hair was a disarray of curls that nearly reached his shoulder, a striking and rich brown that he had inherited from Margo. Quentin should have told him to tie it back, to not look so unkempt, but he could only look upon his son’s panicked face. 

It was like looking in a mirror. 

He turned away, looking instead at the wall. “I’ve tried to find the words— none suffice except, except the most blunt.”

“Your mother would say that blunt words are the best kind.”

Teddy laughed, shaking his head. The moment settled, and he met Quentin’s eyes once more. 

“Am I—“ He started, swallowing hard. “Am I Eliot Waugh’s son? Or am I yours?”

Quentin held his son’s gaze. 

“You’re both,” he said simply. “But you are my blood.” 

Teddy exhaled quickly, starting to pace. “I see.” He pulled a hand through his hair once more. Soon it would be unsalvageable. 

“Teddy—“

“I suppose I should have been prepared for the answer—since I asked—“

Quentin stood to meet him, taking him by the shoulders to still him. Blessedly, Teddy didn’t shrink away. 

“Teddy, it’s alright. After the concert we’ll sit down with your parents and all will be explained— “

“No, no. Tell me now. Was I...was it a mistake?” Teddy interrupted, voice small. “You have lived with us my whole life. There must have been…if Papa has forgiven you then so can I, but please tell me—“ 

“Oh, Teddy, _no_.“ Quentin’s heart broke, for of course left to wonder, their son’s mind had gone to the darkest possibility. How many times had he looked upon his reflection and wondered if he was the image of infidelity? 

“Eliot—he was ill as a young man, and he can’t—but that isn’t important,” Quentin explained, loosening his necktie. “All that matters is that you know that your father and I—and your mother of course—“

Quentin pulled the chain free from his shirt on which his wedding rings still hung, close to his heart after twenty years. Teddy’s eyes grew wide as he took in the gold bands, twins to the rings Eliot and Margo had worn every day of his life.

“You were there, Teddy,” Quentin murmured. “Too young to remember, but we held you in our arms that blessed day and celebrated a spiritual marriage.” 

“I—I don’t remember,” Teddy revealed. “But I’ve had dreams. Oh…”

“This is—it can never be the law, but it is our truth,” Quentin revealed. “It’s the sacred love from which you were conceived.”

Quentin laid his hands on Teddy’s shoulders, searching his eyes for fear. For disgust. There was none, only understanding. Perhaps… relief? 

“Teddy, you are so loved,” he said softly. “I do not think there are words to say how much.”

Teddy’s eyes shone. Brown and thin, quick to shrink when he smiled or laughed. Quentin’s eyes. 

“I...I understand,” he said.

Quentin embraced him then, just the once, as his son. 

“I am so proud of you, my boy,” he said, cradling the back of Teddy’s head with his palm, “Any man would be lucky to call himself your father.” 

“I...thank you, Uncle—I mean, well—that is to say—“

Good lord, but he and his eldest were similar. It was a wonder Eliot had only fought the one duel. Quentin laughed as they parted, clapping his son on the back.

“You’re a man now, Ted,” Quentin said. “Perhaps we can try just ‘Quentin’, and see if it scandalizes the household too badly.”

The orchestra stirred out on stage, warming up for the concert to come. Quentin beamed as he straightened Teddy’s tie and brushed some lint from his jacket. 

“It’s time,” he said. “Look for the whole family in the third row. Your lady mother had the staff hold the seats on pain of death. I hear that a certain Fraulein Genevieve is here with her family as well.”

That brought a blush to Teddy’s cheeks. “Then I must perform my very best.” 

“For a sweetheart, always,” Quentin agreed. Teddy seemed much lighter, his frantic anxiety from earlier settled, if not entirely dissipated. 

Teddy laughed. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t still nervous, but...I’m proud of what I’ve made.” 

“It’s going to be wonderful,” Quentin replied. “You’re your father’s son.”

Teddy’s eyes brightened at the repeated sentiment. “I am,” he replied. “I truly am. Thank you...Quentin.” 

~

After his concerto performance, Teddy moved into a small apartment with a piano and a bed, trying to make his own way as a musician in an increasingly changing world. This left only Honour and Clara left at home with them, and Margo felt a sort of amusement in that the women of the house now outnumbered the men. 

“Are those my trousers?” Quentin asked one afternoon when he passed Margo on the staircase.

“They were.” She winked over her shoulder. She had indeed commandeered one of his shirts as well, all kept in place with a large belt at her waist. “Magnificently freeing, they are. I’m not sure why I didn’t do this before.”

Of course, Quentin had divested her of his clothes as soon as possible that day, something feral in him released from seeing her garbed in his cast offs, but that was beside the point. She saw no reason, as a woman nearing fifty, to be uncomfortable in her own home. 

With such informal habits becoming commonplace in the Waugh household, Margo and Clara grew more as friends every day, as mothers and daughters sometimes do. Clara adored writing poems and comically theatrical monologues, and presented them with gusto in the parlor, to Margo’s often shrieking laughter. They complained about needlepoint together, despite both enjoying the finished product. They could be found walking through the city on any given afternoon, Margo filling her in on the latest court gossip. Besides her spouses, Clara was her dearest and most constant companion. 

It was a lazy afternoon in August, too hot to even move, when Margo found out just how much Clara knew about her family. 

“Do you remember Fraulein Marie? Her father owns the wool factory north of the city?” 

Clara laid her book face down in her lap, feet propped up on the coffee table. “I suppose. Wasn’t I invited to her coming out?”

“Years ago now, but yes.” Margo handed her the letter in her hand. “It would seem that she has broken her mother’s heart and decided to run away with a poet.”

“Oh dear,” Clara said noncommittally as she scanned the letter from Margo’s cousin in the north. “Not even married I see.”

“Not even. Frau Hummel must be aghast. And there’s a baby on the way, I hear told in other circles.”

Clara returned the letter, shrugging. “To each their own, I suppose. But to live in a shabby apartment with no money and with a child to care for–all in the name of love, I can’t say that is a life I would choose. So much risk.”

Margo worried at her bottom lip, Clara’s words suddenly unsettling her otherwise blasé mood. 

“You know, my dear, there are some rewards to risk,” Margo said, hoping to impart some motherly wisdom this afternoon. “Your father and I wouldn’t be where we are without a little risk. And–”

Clara waved a hand at her words. “Yes, yes, I know, and Uncle Quentin wouldn’t be able to live as husband to the two people he loves without risk.” She righted the book in her lap, turning to a new page. “I’m only saying that such risks are not for me.”

Margo blinked, suddenly very aware of every drop of humidity in the air. Of the ticking of the clock on the mantel and the cry of street vendors outside in the street. Nerves fluttered in her stomach, but Clara looked every bit as calm as she did before.

Goodness, how had Quentin handled this so calmly with Teddy?

“Clara, my dearest,” Margo said, keeping her voice cheery. “What did you just say?”

Clara looked up, her brow furrowed. 

“That you and Papa and Uncle Quentin live as spouses? And that Uncle Quentin is our father in blood?”

Margo’s jaw fell. She gasped for the right words. She hadn’t prepared for such an onslaught.

“Clara–you must understand–how did you–”

Surprises of all surprises, Clara _laughed._

“Do you think there is a thing in the world that Teddy can keep from me?” Clara said, smiling almost wickedly. “He _did_ last three days before knocking on my bedroom door at midnight to tell me, if it’s any consolation.”

Margo thought of her son, his penchant for anxiety and worry, looking for answers and solace wherever he could find them. Of course he had gone to his younger, more sensible sister to set his head right on his shoulders.

“Honestly, Mama, I thought that you knew that I knew the truth.”

Margo looked down at her lap, still more surprised than she had ever been in her life. 

“I knew no such thing...but this means–that you’re alright? Do you not find it confusing?”

Clara shrugged. “Not particularly. Love is a complicated thing. All the great poets know that.”

Margo smiled to think that Clara counted herself as a great poet. 

“Well,” Margo flopped back on the sofa, posture terrible enough to make her mother turn in her grave. “And here I thought we were being careful. Subtle even.”

“You are,” Clara assured her. “In public at least. But at home…”

Margo ceded that point with a nod. It wasn’t as if Quentin hadn’t snuck a kiss with her or Eliot in the hall once or twice. 

“And Mama, there’s also the small matter of—” Clara did turn a little red then. “Well. You’re wearing Uncle Quentin’s trousers at this very moment.”

Margo looked down at herself, laughing in spite of the ridiculousness. 

“I suppose I am.”

“Indeed. Papa would not be caught _dead_ in that camel tartan.” 

“He’ll be thrilled that you noticed, dearheart.”

They settled back into comfortable silence and their own activities, Margo feeling slightly relieved that this deed had been done for her. Only, there was another matter…

“Do I need to say that Honour shouldn’t be privy to this revelation just yet?” she asked frankly, praying to God that her fiery youngest didn’t already know such fragile information.

“Oh, no, I agree with you in that regard. She’s far too young.” Clara turned another page in her novel. “Though I would brace yourself. I don’t think that Honour will allow herself to remain ignorant for much longer.”

In that, Margo could only agree. 

“Lucky for me, that conversation is doomed to be your father’s occupation.”

~

“I have a question,” Honour announced at the breakfast table one morning. Their youngest had blossomed into quite the precocious fourteen year old, as stubborn as Quentin and intelligent as Margo. It was Eliot, whoever, with whom their daughter shared a true likeness in spirit and thus her parents had come to expect an element of the dramatic at her breakfast table announcements.

“What is it, cherub?” Eliot asked, not looking up from his morning paper.

“Am I your biological get?” 

Eliot choked on his tea. Margo had to cough into her napkin to hide her bark of laughter, and Quentin suddenly found himself quite occupied with the coffee pot. Clara refused to look up from her book, long resigned to her sister’s lack of propriety.

“What on _earth_ kind of question is that?” Eliot demanded. 

“One that I would like answered,” Honour replied, immovable as the rock of Gibraltar. Quentin and Margo exchanged a look which somehow managed to convey their mutual relief that they had already taken their turns with this particular topic of conversation. As if Eliot wouldn’t notice. 

“Very well,” Eliot agreed. “Might we take this conversation to the library, or shall we have the Inquisition here and now?” 

“By all means, Papa, finish your tea. I’ll wait.” 

With that Honour departed for Eliot’s office, leaving them all in gobsmacked silence. It was Quentin who managed a laugh after a few moments. 

“Are you enjoying my suffering, dearest?” Eliot asked, raising one eyebrow. 

“No, of course not,” Quentin promised, eyes creased with mirth. “But goodness, she’s like a little _you_ , Eliot.” 

“I’m doing my best not to be insulted.” Eliot couldn’t even pretend anger at his husband. Quentin simply looked so dashing and handsome, especially when he laughed. His silver hair and gold spectacles were a balm to Eliot’s blossoming anxiety regarding the conversation to come. Margo patted his arm, and he took comfort in that as well.

“She was conceived after you shot Wolf, dear,” his wife reminded him. “I don’t know what you expected.” 

That soured Eliot’s mood all over again.

“Remind me to drop a note to your father,” Eliot grumbled, “I want to apologize for every gray hair we ever gave him.” 

Eliot finished his tea, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and rose from the table, going to join his youngest in the study. 

“This is going to be quite the hurricane, isn’t it?” Clara asked, reaching for another slice of bread as Eliot left them. 

“Indeed,” Margo said, passing her daughter the butter. “Gird your loins.”

Nearly two minutes passed in silence before the shouting began. Eliot could hardly remember what was said. He loved his daughter more than life itself but he couldn’t deny that they had a talent for winding each other up. Never before had the truth of his love for Quentin, of Quentin’s love for their wife, of their _marriage_ , passed his lips in anger, but Honour met him blow for blow as only she could.

“You _lied_ ,” Honour declared, her shrill accusation cutting through the cacophony. 

“And you are acting like a _child_ ,” he shot back. It was not his most successful argument, given his adolescent adversary. 

Honour turned on her heel, slamming the door to Eliot’s study as she marched back into breakfast. Eliot only managed to chase her out in time to see her point her finger in Quentin’s face and declare: 

_“Vous n'êtes pas mon père!_ ” 

And with that declaration of war, Honour swanned out of the breakfast room and upstairs, not to be seen for the rest of the day.

Margo patted Quentin comfortingly on the arm. “I see it’s going to be one of those weeks.” 

Quentin nodded sadly. “I shall dig out my traveler’s dictionary.”

Eliot sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb.

“I admit,” he said at last. “That this has not been my finest hour.” 

“That’s one way of putting it,” Margo agreed, her voice light. “Come and eat some eggs, Eliot. You’re going to need your strength.”

Honour refused to speak anything but French for three days, to all of their great chagrin. It was an intentional slight against Quentin, who had never been able to manage more in that tongue than the most stilted pleasantries for the sake of court appearances. Honour’s blood father bore it with a sad little smile that threatened to tear Eliot’s heart right out of his chest. 

“It is only because she loves you so dearly, that she’s upset,” Quentin tried to reassure him. “It is a sentiment I can appreciate.”

Things came to a head at the dinner table—where Honour at only fourteen was _lucky to be invited_ —when their daughter coldly ignored Quentin’s perfectly gentle request to pass the butter. 

“Darling, did you not hear your uncle?” Margo’s voice was pleasant in the way only a mother’s warning could be. 

“ _Je l'ai entendu_ ,” Honor replied, scowling. “ _Je ne parle pas aux intrus.”_

Even steady Clara gasped at that, and Eliot threw down his napkin, his patience at an end.

“ _Honour_. I will not accept such unchristian behavior in this house.”

Honour stood her ground. “Apparently you _will.”_

“ _Young lady, go to your room_.”

One could have heard a pin drop in the vacuum of silence Honour left behind her, and in that silence Eliot had to confront that much of this was his doing as much as it was his daughter’s. It seemed there was to be revealed even at this late stage some aspects of fatherhood to which he would not be blissfully, preternaturally suited. 

Eliot swallowed, his throat tight as he pushed his half-finished plate away.

“I’m sorry for the spectacle, my loves,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me.” 

Eliot sequestered himself in his study, feeling quite the beast. He took to the piano, a heavy flannel deadening the sound for the sake of the household, and played himself out. Three scherzos and one of his more dramatic rhapsodies proved cathartic, and Eliot was able to spare a grateful thought that they did not have _too_ many musicians in the house, that there was little risk of warring pianos in stressful times such as these. 

His anger replaced by soft melancholy, Eliot poured himself some wine. It was after dark now, and the house was quiet. Returning to the piano he fiddled briefly with the melody of a new _Consolation_ in progress, but he felt little inspiration. What he needed was the tender embrace of his husband and wife, and even more so to see his daughter smile again. Eliot sighed. The revelations had gone so well with Teddy and Clara, he had dared to hope… 

Eliot set his head in his hands. If Honour truly couldn’t accept him—for that was Eliot’s selfish fear, that it was _him_ she could never forgive, though Quentin bore the brunt of her temper—he feared his heart might never be whole again. 

“Papa?” 

Eliot looked up from the keys to find Honour at the door in her nightgown, her dark curls slipping wildly out of her braid and her cheeks wet with tears. 

“Honour, my dove, what’s the matter?” he asked, aghast. 

“Papa...I’m sorry.” Her next exhale was a sob, and she pleaded. “Please don’t hate me!” 

In a moment, any trace of anger Eliot might have still felt was forgotten. He rose and opened his arms and his daughter practically ran into his embrace. He held her, soothing nonsense on his lips as she cried. It was so easy to forget given the sheer scale of her personality that the top of his daughter’s head barely met his collarbone. 

“What’s this nonsense?” Eliot murmured, though it did little to soothe Honour’s tears. “I’m cross darling, but I could never hate you.” 

“B-but I’m so difficult, and— and I was mean to Uncle Quentin—” Honour was nearly in hysterics. Eliot had not seen her cry like this since she was a little girl, and had broken her arm falling off the garden wall. It had terrified Eliot then and it terrified him now, to see his child in pain. 

“Honour, please—” 

“—and if-if he’s my real father, then _you don’t have to love me anymore_ , and I— I can’t— please, Papa—”

So this was the true crux of it all. Eliot felt as though chunk of ice had been dropped into his belly. 

“How could you even speak such a thing?” The terror in Eliot’s voice startled Honour out of her own tears, and he took a breath to measure his words. 

“There is no force in Hell or Heaven that could stop my loving you,” he said, after a moment. “You—you’re my _child_ , and I your father.” 

“But...but you’re not,” Honour said, fragile and uncertain, and Eliot closed his eyes to the pain of those words. He could see now that Honour spoke them and others only out of confusion and fear. “I—I’m sorry, Papa, but you _said—”_

“You may not be my blood, but Honour...” Eliot paused until he found the words to explain properly. 

“My bold, wonderful girl, you were born from the barrel of a gun.” Eliot couldn’t help but smile at the memory. The fear of defeat. The thrill of victory. The joy of coming home to his family. “I nearly killed a man out of love for you all and as a gift your mother and Quentin made you for me. My very own bespoke favorite to spoil.” 

Honour sniffled, her brow furrowed as she processed this new information. “Oh.”

“I remember the very hour you arrived on this earth,” Eliot promised into his daughter’s wild dark curls. “Your mother set you in my arms and said ‘this one is going to be yours, Eliot. Can’t you see? She is already your spitting image.’”

Eliot smoothed the curls back from Honour’s brow and placed a kiss there. “Our circumstances are unique, cherub, but I will always, _always_ be your father.”

To his relief, Honour offered him a watery smile, and after a few more hiccups Eliot was able to help dry her tears with his handkerchief. 

“Then you love Uncle Quentin very much?” Honour asked after some moments. “And—and you said before that he wears a wedding ring?” 

“Two of them,” Eliot reminds her. “One from your mother and I both, because he is the dearest love of our hearts, after only our children.” 

“And he’s sweet to you? Like the lovers in his poetry books?” 

Eliot smiled. How lucky he was to have children eager to look after his heart so fervently. 

“Yes, darling. I can only pray you come to know half as much love in your life as I have been blessed with in mine.” 

At his words Honour’s expression turned anxious again.

“Papa…” 

“Yes, sweetling. Ask me anything,” he promised. “There’s no reason to be fearful.” 

“I only wondered,” Honour continued, playing at the sleeve of her nightgown and looking more like Quentin than she ever had. “Can such love exist between two women, as well as two men?” 

Eliot froze, a thousand emotions flitting through him all at once, for his youngest was not in the habit of asking hypothetical questions. His first instinct was fear, as life for those of their nature was often a cruel one. He felt the fierce urge to protect his child, to hide her away from the world where she might be safe forever from the heartbreaks to come. The other was understanding, for how many vulnerabilities had Honour been hiding behind her brash and bold displays of impropriety? It was plain to see now why the revelation of their difference in blood might have made her afraid.

But he realized, what Eliot felt more than any of these lesser emotions was _joy_ , for Margo had spoken truly when she said that Honour would be his. She was his perfect mirror, all of his tempestuous passion and tender anxieties in a compact feminine parcel. It was only right that they share this as well. 

And here he was, her father. The rejection, the cold barren _loneliness_ of his youth was being returned to him as a gift in the form of his daughter’s hopeful gaze. He had hundreds of stories to tell her, and dozens of friends for her to meet. (Good lord, he would need to write to Julia at once. There were certain kinds of feminine advice he was not qualified to give, though Honour was still _far_ too young to think seriously on such matters.) 

All that mattered was that Honour would never _never_ feel alone as he did. 

As the realization washed over him, Eliot felt truly blessed.

“Papa?” 

Eliot blinked, realizing in his excitement he had become lost in thought. 

“Yes, _yes_ , of course such love exists,” he was able to say at last, his heart so full of love and pride he could swear he might die of it. Eliot pulled his daughter into his arms again and kissed her hair, so miraculously like his own. “Honour, there are all _kinds_ of love in this world, and all kinds of people—just like you and I—who celebrate it.”

“Oh,” Honour replied, wiping at her eyes as she smiled. “Well, I guess that’s alright, then.”

“Yes, my love. It certainly is.”

The next morning Eliot stepped into the breakfast room to the welcome sight of his family all gathered over their toast and coffee. He bent down to peck a kiss on Margo’s cheek, and then, with a thrill of realization, gave the same to Quentin as well. He savored the shocked little smile that stole over his husband’s face, crinkling the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, as Honour asked in perfect ladylike German:

“Uncle Quentin, would you be so good as to pass the butter?” 

* * *

There came a night in late February when for the first time in over thirty years of performing, Eliot Waugh declined to play an encore. Audiences were shocked to see the virtuoso rush from the stage with hardly even a full bow. He was gone from their sight before the applause even rose to its full crescendo. Little did they know that one Quentin Coldwater waited backstage with the pianist’s overcoat in hand, and at the backdoor to the concert hall a carriage to take them both to the apartments where at any moment a little one was due to arrive. 

“Has there been any word?” Eliot demanded, the applause still echoing behind them as they nearly ran down the cramped backstage halls. 

“No, darling,” Quentin assured him, “We haven’t missed it yet.” 

They took to the carriage at a brisk walk, Todd waiting for them with the door open. Eliot pretended his trembling was from the exertion of his concert and not any nerves for the events to come. 

“Damn that girl,” he muttered as he patted his pockets in the cool evening air, hoping for the hit of tobacco to settle him. “Honour’s been in my cigarettes again.” 

Quentin only laughed at him and provided cigarette and match both from his own better hidden silver case. 

Once the door was latched Eliot forwent his smoking to pull Quentin close and kiss him on the mouth. 

“Can you believe it, Q?” he asked, eyes bright with joy and nerves equally. “Our Theodore— our little Teddy— a _father_. All I can think of his when he was still too small to reach the piano pedals.”

Quentin laughed. “I’m remembering when he was born. Such a lovely present Margo gave to us.” 

“I remember when we made him.” Eliot kissed Quentin again. “Such a lovely present _you_ gave to us.” 

The carriage took them to a respectable neighborhood of charming, if modest, townhouses. Teddy had found good reception for his work in Vienna, and the tour three years ago with Eliot had provided him the means to provide for a wife and household. It was hardly as fashionable as Eliot himself preferred, but Teddy was a hard worker and a good husband and Eliot was proud of him, today most of all. 

They were let in by Teddy’s single housekeeper (Todd was developing quite the trade of locating “trustworthy” servants for their expanding family) and they raced upstairs where the great event was to take place. Margo greeted them outside of the birthing room, an apron over her evening gown that looked like it had been stolen off a scullery maid, her steel-gray hair pulled back and her eyes sharp with purpose. 

“How is she?” Quentin asked breathlessly as Fen rushed past them with an armful of linens. The lady’s maid had become something of an apprentice to Frau Schiller (god rest her soul) and was quite the midwife now in her own right. With the opening and closing of the door they could hear Clara and Honour consoling Teddy’s wife in cheerful tones. (Their daughter-in-law had very little family, after a bout of influenza had swept Vienna a few years back now, but she knew all, and thus had been adopted happily into their strange little clan.)

“Genevieve is in excellent spirits,” Margo announced. “However, our son takes after his father.” 

Quentin and Eliot were directed to a bench in the hall where Theodore Waugh sat, twenty-five years old and pale as a sheet. 

“Oh _Teddy—_ ” Quentin was a rock, as always, while Eliot half-wanted to join his son on the bench. “—my boy, come here.” 

“Papa, Quentin, thank God _,_ ” Teddy said, allowing them both to pull him into a hearty embrace. “How did you ever survive this waiting?” 

“We nearly didn’t,” Quentin said at the same time Eliot admitted, “Brandy.”

“ _Eliot_.” Quentin’s tone was exasperated but his eyes were twinkling, and Eliot laughed at the scandalized look on Teddy’s face. 

“Come now, Ted, it was your mother’s idea, and she is wise in all matters.” Eliot put his arm around his son’s shoulders and guided him towards the stairs. “Todd, did you bring the bottle I asked?” 

“Indeed, sir!” Came the reply from downstairs. 

“Excellent. We’ll just have one,” Eliot promised his son. “And we shall play some music—your mother will explain the tradition to dear Genevieve—and before you know it there will be a babe in your arms.” 

And so they did. And so there was. It was barely midnight when Margo placed a healthy and wailing baby boy in Teddy’s arms. Teddy began to weep at once, obviously, looking so much like Quentin when he had stood exactly in his place holding _him_ that it was like seeing a particularly joyful ghost. 

“My son,” he declared, kissing his wife’s hand. “My love, we have a _son._ ” 

It was perfect. 

However, unlike the memory of Teddy’s birth, this time it was Eliot was most eager to greet the little one, taking the baby from Teddy with greedy hands as soon as he was allowed. 

“Aren’t you wonderful,” he cooed, thrilled to see the shape of Quentin’s nose and Margo’s eyebrows already. His first grandchild, Eliot wasn’t sure he’d ever been so in love. “Teddy, he’s perfect. Absolutely marvelous. When is the christening? What will you name him?” 

“Our first boy,” Teddy said, resting his hand on Eliot’s shoulder. “I thought it was only right that he be named for his grandfather.”

And Eliot beamed down at the little parcel in his arms, because it was only right, and Quentin would be so happy to have his name carried on and—

—and then Teddy murmured, absolute love in his eyes as he gazed down on his son— 

”Our little Eliot.”

Eliot. 

Eliot. 

_Eliot_. 

“Oh, _Teddy_.” Eliot’s voice was rough, the sight of his grandchild blurring as his eyes filled with tears. 

“Uncle Quentin has given his blessing,” Teddy confided. “Can I have yours, Papa? Will you let my son carry on your name?” 

“Yes,” Eliot breathed. “Good lord, of _course_. I just never imagined—” 

“Don’t cry, Papa,” Teddy said, his own cheeks wet. “This is a happy occasion!” 

“Yes,” Eliot agreed, crying regardless. “Certainly one of the happiest of my life.”

Lighter, prouder, and more overjoyed than he could ever remember, Eliot managed to drag his eyes away from the little one in his arms. He caught Quentin’s eye, and he could only pray that the tears on his cheeks were enough to convey the depth of his gratitude. 

“Margo, Q,” he called to his loves. “Come and meet our grandson. Come and meet little Eliot.”

~

They arrived home at nearly two in the morning, exhausted but triumphant. 

“I’m going straight to bed,” Clara announced, leaving off her bonnet on the hall table. 

“And I,” Honour agreed, who’s bonnet had come off long before in the carriage and propriety be damned. All three parents wished their daughter’s goodnight before facing each other there in the foyer. 

“Well,” Margo sighed after some moments, shaking out her braided hair as she took off her own hat. “I for one think we should have a bath.” 

A smile blossomed across Quentin’s dear face, and Eliot sighed his bliss. The phantom scent of jasmine already teased him as he pulled his wife in for a kiss. 

“My love, you have the best ideas. I’ll set the water running.” 

It had been quite the coup, managing the purchase and installation of a tub properly big enough for three in their master bath, but in honor of their twentieth anniversary Eliot had deemed it essential to their happiness. It was still an intimate fit, but then, Eliot thought as they sank into the steaming water, they hardly chose to bathe together for the sake of distance. 

There was a serene atmosphere to their soak, the bathroom lit with candles and the scent of jasmine in the air. They had left their robes on the floor in their haste, each a complementing floral silk with their monogrammed initials ( _EW, MW, QW,_ one of Margo’s proudest embroidery projects. Quentin had wept when he had been gifted his.) They savored simple intimacies, Quentin’s hands shared between Eliot and Margo, all of their ankles tucked together in the water. They were perfectly bare except for the glimmer of Quentin’s wedding rings, held fast on their chain around his neck as always. 

“What a beautiful movement has begun tonight, in this our life’s symphony,” Eliot mused, unable to find a single flicker in his heart of anything besides utter contentment. 

“Mm, you should write poetry,” Margo replied, a twinkle of meanness in her teasing, just as Eliot preferred. He didn’t rise to her bait, but kissed Quentin’s fingers. Quentin kissed Margo’s in turn, passing on the tender sentiment, and Eliot savored being able to make his wife blush, even after all these years. 

It had been a long day, a great day, a day they would treasure for the rest of their lives, yet Eliot found himself the furthest thing from sleepy even as the warm water eased all tension from his muscles. They were _grandparents_ now, and yet Eliot had never felt so young, so full of life and vigour. 

“Speak for yourself, Herr Waugh,” Margo replied when he shared as much with his two loves. Her grin was languorous as she sipped her well deserved claret. “Some of us brought new life into the world today.” 

“Indeed,” Eliot agreed with a wink, raising his own glass in toast. “Here’s to Genevieve.”

Margo splashed him thoroughly for his cheek, only laughing wickedly when poor Quentin was caught in the crossfire. He took refuge in Eliot’s embrace, grinning when Margo played at pouting. 

“I see you both are looking to sleep in the north bedroom for the rest of the week,” she threatened, though Eliot knew from the secret curve of her smile that hell and high water would not keep the three of them from their marriage bed that night. 

His lips pressed to Eliot’s shoulder, Quentin hummed. 

“Do you know,” he said, apropos of nothing. “In twenty-five years we have never once made love in this bath?” 

“Why, we must have…” Eliot blinked as he realized his husband was correct. He looked down to see that Quentin was already blushing, his eyes bright and eager. Margo nudged her toes against Eliot’s thigh, raising her eyebrows, and Eliot could feel the hunger emanating from her already. 

He couldn’t help but laugh, bliss and desire thrumming through his frame in equal measure. Eliot pulled Quentin properly between his legs, to kiss him as a husband ought. 

“Well, it’s like I said,” he murmured when they parted for breath, stoking tenderly over Margo’s ankle under the water. “Tonight is only the beginning for us, my loves.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can we say? 
> 
> It was impossible to know how much this story would come to mean to both of us when we started writing it almost a year ago. It has been life-changing as writers to enjoy creating something as much as we have enjoyed bringing you Our Sublime Refrain. 
> 
> We thank you all for everything. Your encouragements and comments have meant the world to us and kept us going through writer's block and tricky plot gaps. It's always amazing to know that someone is enjoying your writing, but to hear you all analyze and interpret it and notice the little details we thought were just for us-- it's an indescribable feeling. We love you all, and are so grateful for your support of fandom content creators. 
> 
> If you are at all interested in learning more about the historical figures whose lives inspired a lot of this fic, please feel free to contact me (queliotpasta on tumblr) any time and I can give you a whole stack of books to read and even more music to listen to. 
> 
> One last thank you! 
> 
> Love, love, and love some more, 
> 
> destielpasta and mtothedestiel


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